SONGS  OF  HORSES 


P^y 


SONGS  OF  HORSJ 


9090  014  557  066 


^yebsler  Famity  Library  of  Veterinaty  Medicine 

Cummings  School  of  Veterinary  MedidnBat 

Tufts  University 

200  Westtxxno  Road 

Noffh  Grafton.  MA  01636 


The  Old  Corner  Book 

Store,  Inc. 
Boston,       -      Mass. 


SONGS  OF  HORSES,  AN  ANTHOI^ 
OGY  SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED 
BY  ROBERT  FROTHINGHAM 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY    HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVBD 


TO 

HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 

Rider  of  the  high  trails, 
equally  at  ease  astride 
Pegasus  or  the  Roan  Cayuse. 

"  Since  we  deserve  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 

A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 
And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends." 

R.  F. 


FOREWORD 


Since  the  dawn  of  civilization  the  horse  and  the 
Muses  have  been  boon  companions  in  all  the 
heroics  of  mythology  and  history.  The  Ancients 
regarded  the  horse  as  a  being  of  divine  origin,  pos- 
sessing supernatural  power,  and  their  creation  of 
the  Centaur  —  the  only  one  of  the  fanciful  mon- 
sters of  antiquity  to  which  any  good  traits  were  as- 
signed —  as  one  of  their  tutelary  deities,  was  the 
direct  result  of  their  efforts  to  establish  an  indis- 
soluble bond  between  themselves  and  their  gods. 
Neptune,  to  whom  the  creation  of  the  horse  was 
attributed,  might  be  called  the  original  patron  of 
horse-racing.  The  horses  which  pulled  his  chariot 
over  the  ocean  had  brazen  hoofs  and  golden  manes, 
and  where  he  drove,  calm  succeeded  storm.  The 
golden  Chariot  of  the  Sun  that  Phoebus  drove  in  the 
heavens  was  drawn  by  three  white  horses,  the  gift 
of  Neptune.  Pegasus,  the  horse  of  the  Muses,  has 
always  been  exploited  by  the  poets  of  all  modern 
languages  —  notably  in  Shakespeare's  Henry  IV, 
where  Vernon  describes  Prince  Henry  as  vaulting 

"...  with  such  ease  into  his  seat 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship." 


viii  FOREWORD 


No  less  a  personage  than  that  husky  brute  of  a 
Roman  emperor,  Caligula,  honored  his  favorite 
horse  Incitatus  by  appointing  him  a  Roman  Consul, 
much  to  the  confusion  of  the  dissipated  dandies  of 
his  coiirt,  who  considered  it  an  unmerited  "horse" 
on  them.  The  versified  story  of  this  little  incident 
will  be  found  within. 

The  intimate  identity  of  the  horse  with  the  life 
and  literature  of  all  peoples,  since  civilization  be- 
gan, has  a  most  interesting  scientific  explanation 
as  well.  From  the  little  five-toed  Eohippus  of 
Eocene  times,  through  the  four-toed  and  three- 
toed  intermediate  forms,  down  to  his  wonderful 
present-day  development,  the  original  species  has 
never  changed.  Whatever  his  evolution  during 
millions  of  years,  the  horse  has  always  been  a  horse, 
and,  according  to  our  old  friend  Job,  got  a  lot  of 
satisfaction  out  of  it;  hence  the  "  horse-laugh  "  — 
see  Job's  statement  inside.  Indeed,  the  advance  of 
the  horse  has  been  coincidental  with  that  of  man 
himself. 

"  Said  the  little  Eohippus : 
*  I'm  going  to  be  a  horse, 
And  on  my  middle  finger-nails 
To  run  my  earthly  course.'  '* 

"  Giddap,"  little  book. 

New  York 

September,  1920  R.  F. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The  editor  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  the 
following  authors  and  publishers  for  the  use  of  copy- 
right poems: 

Messrs.  Angus  &  Robertson,  Ltd.,  Sydney,  N.S.W., 
for  "Conroy's  Gap,"  from  The  Man  from  Snowy 
River,  by  A.  B.  Paterson;  and  "The  Riding  Camel," 
from  The  Australian^  and  Other  VerseSy  by  Will 
H.  Ogilvie. 

Mr.  Richard  G.  Badger  for  "Ridin',"  "The  Song 
of  the  Leather,"  and  "The  Legend  of  Boastful 
Bill,"  from  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather,  by  Badger 
Clark. 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company  for  "The  Kentucky 
Thoroughbred,"  from  Biographical  Edition  of  Com- 
plete  Works  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "Pard- 
ners,"  from  Songs  of  the  Workaday  World,  by 
Berton  Braley. 

Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  and  Rudyard 
Kipling  for  "The  Ballad  of  East  and  West"  and 
"The  Undertaker's  Horse,"  from  Mr.  KipUng's 
Collected  Verse. 

Messrs.  Houghton  Mifllin  Company  for  "Largo," 
"Riders  of  the  Stars,"  "Sunlight,"  and  "That 
Roan  Cay  use,"  from  Riders  of  the  Stars,  by  Henry 
Herbert  Knibbs;  "The  Old-Timer,"  "The  Pony 
Express,"  "The  War-Horse  Buyers,"  and  "The 
Meeting,"  from  Out  Where  the  West  Begins,  by 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Arthur  Chapman;  "The  Leap  of  RoushanBeg"and 
"Paul  Revere*s  Ride,"  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow; 
"How  the  Old  Horse  Won  the  Bet,"  by  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes;  and  "Chiquita,"  by  Bret  Harte. 

Messrs.  Jarrolds,  London,  for  "On  Active  Serv- 
ice"; "A  Dumb  Appeal,"  by  Jessie  Pope;  and  "A 
Prayer,"  by  C.  S.  Purves,  from  Blue  Cross  Fund 
Poems. 

Messrs.  John  Lane  Company  for  "The  Old  Gray 
Mare,"  from  The  Vagabonds,  by  R.  C.  Lehmann. 

Mr.  Norbert  Lyons,  Manila,  P.I.,  for  "The 
Cochero  and  the  Horse,"  from  The  Lays  of  Sergeant 
Con. 

The  Outer's  Press  for  "The  Horse  of  Pete 
Lareau,"  from  Fagots  of  Cedar ^  by  Ivan  Swift. 

Baltimore  Sun  for  "The  Cavalry  Charge,"  by 
Folger  McKinsey. 

Blackwood^s  Magazine  for  "The  Death  of  the 
Old  Squire." 

Chicago  Evening  Post  for  "Consul  Romanus," 
by  Bertrand  ShadweU. 

New  York  American  for  "The  Horse"  and 
"How  Salvator  Won,"  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Punch  for  "Troop  Horses  "  and  "A  Call  to  the 
Cow  Ponies,"  by  Will  H.  Ogilvie. 

Rider  and  Driver  for  "Our  Horses,"  by  F.  M. 
Ware;  "The  Elkridge  Hunt  Club,"  by  D.  S.  G.; 
"Conscripts,"  by  Anna  M.  Fielding;  "Number  7," 
by  Edith  Musgrave;  and  "The  Early  Morning 
Ride,"  by  Dorothea  Gilroy. 

Saturday  Post  (London)  for  "Remounts,"  by 
Will  H.  OgUvie. 


CONTENTS 


THE  WILD  WEST 

LARGO,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 3 

RIDIN',  Badger  Clark 5 

THE  OLD-TIMER,  Arthur  Chapman 7 

CHIQUITA,  Bret  Harte 8 

RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs        .  10 
THE  RANGE  RIDER,  Sharlot  M.  HaU       .      .      .      .13 

BURRO,  O.  R 14 

LASCA,  Frank  Desprez 16 

THE  PONY  EXPRESS,  Arthur  Chapman    ....  19 

THE  TRAIL  OF  DEATH,  Sharlot  M.  Hall        ...  20 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER,  Badger  Clark     .      .  22 

THE  OL'  COW  HAWSE,  E.  A.  Brinninstool     ...  24 

THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs      .      .  25 

WHEN  YOU  'RE  THROWED,  Anonymous        ...  28 

A  SADDLE-SONG,  Sharlot  M.  Hall 30 

MARTA  OF  MILRONE,  Herman  G.  Scheffauer      .      .31 

PARDNERS,  Berton  Braley 36 

THE  MEETING,  Arthur  Chapman 37 

TWO-BITS,  Sharlot  M.  Hall 38 

EL  HIJO  DEL  MAR,  Charles  Howard  Shinn    ...  42 

RIDING  SONG,  Anonymous 43 

ORIENT  AND  OCCIDENT 

THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST,  Rudyard  Kipling  47 

THE  RIDING  CAMEL,  WUl  H.  OgUvie      .       .       .      .  53 

MULEYKEH,  Robert  Browning 57 

CONSUL  ROMANUS,  Bertrand  Shadwell   ....  65 


xii  CONTENTS 


THE   KENTUCKY    THOROUGHBRED,  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley 67 

THE  EARLY  MORNING  RIDE,  Dorothea  Gilroy  .      .  67 

CONROY'S  GAP,  A.  B.  Paterson 68 

ALEXANDER  TAMING  BUCEPHALUS,  Park  Benjamin  73 

THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE,  Caroline  Norton  .  76 

EL-AZREK,  Bayard  Taylor 78 

NO  REST  FOR  THE  HORSE,  Anonymous     ...  81 
THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  STEED,  Caroline 

Norton 83 

BAVIECA,  John  G.  Lockhart 86 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  HORSE,  The  Book  of  Job        .  88 

A  PICTURE,  Shakespeare 89 

A  HORSE'S  EPITAPH,  Lord  Sherbrooke   ....  89 

FROM  THE  WRECK,  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  ...  90 
HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 

GHENT  TO  AIX,  Robert  Browning 96 

LORRAINE,  Charles  Kingsley 99 

THE   BALLAD    OF    HADJI    AND    THE    BOAR,  Ian 

Hamilton lOO 

THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG,  Henry  W.  LongfeUow  108 
PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE,  Henry  W.  Longfellow       .      .111 

TRACK  AND  FIELD 

HOW  WE  BEAT   THE  FAVOURITE,  Adam    Lindsay 

Gordon 119 

HOW  SALVATOR  WON,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox       .      .  124 

PEDIGREES,  Em.  Pierce 127 

THE  RACE  OF  THE  YEAR,  W.  PhiUpotts  WiUiams     .  128 

TEN  BROECK,  James  Tandy  Ellis 130 

THE    FAMOUS    BALLAD  OF   THE   JUBILEE   CUP, 

Arthur  T.  Quiller-Couch 13 1 

THE  TROTTING  WONDERS  OF  1889,  Em.  Pierce    .  139 
IN  MEMORY  OF  NANCY  HANKS,  WiU  J.  Lampton  .  140 


CONTENTS  xiii 


THE  RINGERS,  Em.  Pierce 142 

OUR  HORSES,  F.  M.  W 144 

THE  FOXHUNTER'S  DREAM,  G.  C.  Scheu  .  .  .146 
THE  ELKRIDGE  HUNT  CLUB,  D.  S.  G.  ...  148 
THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HORSE,  George  A.  Fothergill  149 
THE  OLD  GRAY  MARE,  R.  C.  Lehmann         .       .       .151 

"  NOTA  BENE,"  Anonymous 152 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIRE,  Anonymous     .  152 

"  HORSE-PLAY  " 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL,  Badger  Clark  .  163 
THE  UNDERTAKER'S  HORSE,  Rudyard  KipUng  .  165 
THE  COCHERO  AND  THE  HORSE,  Norbert  Lyons  ,  167 

BOLTS,  Anonymous 170 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  HORSE,  S.  E.  Kiser  .  .  172 
SUNDAY   TALK    IN   THE    HORSE    SHEDS,    Robert 

J.  Burdette 173 

HOW    THE    OLD    HORSE   WON   THE   BET,  Oliver 

Wendell  Holmes 176 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  RACE,  Hugh  Edmund 

Keough 182 

THE  HORSE   OF   PETE   LAREAU,  Ivan  Swift     .       .189 

THE  HORSE  IN  WAR 

SUNLIGHT,  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 195 

TROOP  HORSES,  Will  H.  Ogilvie 197 

THE  HORSE,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 198 

ON  ACTIVE  SERVICE,  Anonymous 200 

A  DUMB  APPEAL,  Jessie  Pope 201 

A  PRAYER,  C.  S.  Purves 202 

THE  WAR-HORSE  BUYERS,  Arthur  Chapman       .      .  203 

CONSCRIPTS,  Anna  M.  Fielding 204 

A  CALL  TO  THE  COW  PONIES,  Will  H.  Ogilvie        .  205 


xiv  CONTENTS 


"  NUMBER  7,"  Edith  Musgrave 206 

SIR  GILES'  WAR-SONG,  William  Morris  .  .  .208 
SONG  OF  THE  CAVALIER,  William  Motherwell         .  209 

•'  BAY  BILLY,"  F.  H.  Gassaway 210 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  .  .  214 
MILES  KEOGH'S  HORSE,  John  Hay  ....  216 
ON  THE  FIELDS  OF  FRANCE,  Thomas  H.  Herndon    218 

REMOUNTS,  Will  H.  Ogilvie 219 

CAVALRY  CHARGE,  Folger  McKinsey       .      .      .      .220 


THE  WILD  WEST 


SONGS  OF  HORSES 


LARGO 

Bought  him  of  the  Navajos  —  shadow  of  a  pony, 
Over  near  the  Largo  draw,  runnin*  up  and  down; 

Twenty  pesos  turned  the  trick  —  broke  me  cold 
and  stony; 
Then  I  set  to  figure  as  I  rambled  into  town.  * 

'Fore  I  had  the  feel  of  him,  twice  he  like  to  throwed 
me; 
He  did  n*t  have  to  figure  simis  'cause  he  was  n't 
broke; 
Then  he  took  to  runnin'  and  unknowin'-like,  he 
showed  me 
Speed  that  was  surprisin'  in  a  twenty-dollar  joke. 

Wiry  little  Navajo,  no  bigger  than  a  minute ; 

Did  a  heap  of  restin'  up  when  he  got  the  chance. 
But  .  .  .  ever  stop  a  pin-wheel  just  to  locate  what 
was  in  it, 
Findin'   unexpected   you   was   settin'   on   your 
pants? 

That  was  him  —  the  Largo  hoss;  didn't  take  to 
schoolin' ; 
Relayed  out  of  Calient'  into  Santa  Fe; 
Fifty  mile  of  kickin'  sand  and  not  a  wink  of  foolin' 
When  he  hit  the  desert  trail  windin'  down  that 
way. 


SONGS  OF  HORSES 


Once  they  put  a  blooded  hoss  on  the  trail  behind 
him; 
Passed  me  like  a  Kansas  blow;  Largo  didn't 
mind, 
Kept  a-runnin'  strong  and  sweet.  Reckoned  that 
we'd  find  him 
Like  we  did,  in  twenty  mile,  busted,  broke,  and 
blind. 

Ever  see  a  Injun  race?    Times  I  could  'a'  sold 
him 
For  a  dozen  cattle  —  a  most  interestin'  price; 
Set  to  figurin'  ag'in  —  bought  the  mare  that  foaled 
him: 
Shucks !  Her  colts,  they  could  n't  beat  a  herd  of 
hobbled  mice. 

Took  the  brush  and  curry-comb  —  thought  he  'd 
understand  it .  .  . 
Him  a-loafin'  lazy  with  his  nose   across  the 
bars; 
Reckon  dudes  comes  natural;  as  hard  as  he  could 
land  it. 
He  druv  home  his  opinion  while  I  gathered  up 
the  stars. 

That  was  him  —  the  Largo  hoss ;  never  saw  an- 
other 
Desert  hoss  could  beat  him  when  he  started  out 
to  float. 
Pedigree?  He  had  n't  none;  a  pony  was  his  mother, 
And  judgin'  from  his  looks  I  guess  his  father  was 
a  goat. 


RIDIN' 


That's    him    a-standin'    there,    sleepy-like    and 
dreamin' ; 
Sell  him?  Thought  you  M  ask  me  that.  Northern 
mail  is  late 
Just  three  hours.  No,  not  to-day,  pardner.  With- 
out seemin* 
Brash  —  from  here  to  Santa  Fe  we  '11  wipe  it  off 
the  slate. 

Bought  him  of  the  Navajos  —  broke  me  cold  and 
stony; 
But  I  got  a  roll  to-day  —  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  — 
Ridin'  south?  Well,  pardner,  I  '11  just  give  you  that 
there  pony. 
If  we  ain't  in  Santa  Fe  three  hours  ahead  of  you. 
Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


RIDIN' 

There  is  some  that  likes  the  city  — 

Grass  that 's  curried  smooth  and  green, 
Theaytres  and  strangUn'  collars, 

Wagons  run  by  gasoUne  — 
But  for  me  it 's  hawse  and  saddle 

Every  day  without  a  change. 
And  a  desert  sun  a-blazin' 

On  a  himdred  miles  of  range. 

Just  a-ridin\  a-ridirV  — 

Desert  ripplin^  in  the  sun^ 
Mountains  blue  along  the  skyline  — 

I  don^t  envy  anyone 
When  Vm  riding 


SONGS  OF  HORSES 


When  my  feet  is  in  the  stirrups 

And  my  hawse  is  on  the  bust, 
With  his  hoofs  a-fiashin'  lightnin' 

From  a  cloud  of  golden  dust, 
And  the  bawlin'  of  the  cattle 

Is  a-comin'  down  the  wind  — ■ 
Then  a  finer  life  than  ridin' 

Would  be  mighty  hard  to  find. 

Just  a-ridin\  a-ridin*  — 

Split  tin*  long  cracks  through  the  airy 
Stirrin'  up  a  baby  cyclone, 

Rippin*  up  the  prickly  pear  — 
As  Pm  ridin\ 

I  don't  need  no  art  exhibits 

When  the  sunset  does  her  best, 
Paintin'  everlastin'  glory 

On  the  mountains  to  the  west, 
And  your  opery  looks  foolish 

When  the  night-bird  starts  his  tune 
And  the  desert 's  silver  mounted 

By  the  touches  of  the  moon. 

Just  a-ridin^  a-ridin*  — 

Who  kin  envy  kings  and  czars 

When  the  coyotes  down  the  valley 
Are  a-singin*  to  the  stars  — 
Ifhe'sridin'? 

When  my  earthly  trail  is  ended 

And  my  final  bacon  curled 
And  the  last  great  roundup 's  finished 

At  the  Home  Ranch  of  the  world 


THE  OLD-TIMER 


I  don't  want  no  harps  nor  haloes, 
Robes  nor  other  dressed  up  things  — 

Let  me  ride  the  starry  ranges 
On  a  pinto  hawse  with  wings ! 

Just  a-ridin\  a-ridirC  — 

NothirV  Vd  like  half  so  well  ; 
As  a-roundin^  up  the  sinners 

That  have  wandered  out  of  Hell, 
And  a-ridin  \ 

Badger  Clark 

THE  OLD-TIMER 

He  showed  up  in  the  springtime,  when  the  geese 
began  to  honk; 

He  signed  up  with  the  outfit,  and  we  fattened  up  his 
bronk; 

His  chaps  were  old  and  tattered,  but  he  never 
seemed  to  mind, 

'Cause  fer  worryin'  and  frettin'  he  had  never  been 
designed; 

He 's  the  type  of  cattle-pimcher  that  has  vanished 
now,  of  course, 

With  his  hundred-dollar  saddle  on  his  twenty- 
dollar  horse. 

He  never  seemed  to  bother  over  fortune's  ups  and 

downs. 
And  he  never  quit  his  singin'  when  the  gang  was 

full  of  frowns ; 
He  would  lose  his  roundup  money  in  an  hour  of 

swift  play. 
But  he  never  seemed  discouraged  when  he  ambled 

on  his  way. 


8  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

He  would  hit  the  trail  a-singin*,  and  his  smile  was 

out  full  force, 
Though  he  *d  lost  his  fancy  saddle  and  he  did  n't 

have  a  horse. 

I  have  wondered  where  he  wanders  in  these  late, 

degenerate  years, 
When  there  are  no  boundless  ranges,  and  there 

are  no  long-horn  steers ; 
But  I  '11  warrant  he  is  cheerful,  though  unfriendly 

be  the  trail. 
And  his  cigarette  is  glowing,  though  his  grub  supply 

may  fail ; 
For  he  had  life's  happy  secret  —  he  had  traced  it  to 

the  source. 
In  his  hundred-dollar  saddle  on  his  twenty-dollar 

horse. 

Arthur  Chapman 


CHIQUITA 

Beautiful!  Sir,  you  may  say  so.  Thar  isn't  her 

match  in  the  county ; 
Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty? 
Feel   of   that  neck,   sir, —that's   velvet!  Whoa! 

steady  —  ah,  will  you,  you  vixen  I 
"Whoa!  I  say.  Jack,  trot  her  out;  let  the  gentleman 

look  at  her  paces. 

Morgan !  —  she  ain't  nothing  else,  and  I  've  got  the 
papers  to  prove  it. 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dol- 
lars won't  buy  her. 


CHIQUITA 


Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.  Did  you  know 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his 

brains  down  in  'Frisco? 


Hed  n't  no  savvy,  hed  Briggs.  Thar,  Jack !  that  '11 

do,  —  quit  that  foolin* ! 
riothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she's  got  her 

work  cut  out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  bosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too, 

jockeys  is  jockeys: 
And  't  aint  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a 

boss  has  got  in  him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got 

Flanigan's  leaders? 
Nasty  in  dayhght,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford 

in  low  water! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge 

and  his  newy 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the 

water  all  roimd  us; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake 

Creek  just  a-bilin', 
Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 

river. 
I  had  the  grey,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his 

newy,  Chiquita; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from 

the  top  of  the  canon. 


10  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and 

Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and,  afore  I  could 

yell  to  her  rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge 

and  me  standing. 
And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and 

a-driftin*  to  thimder! 

Would  ye  b'lieve  it?  That  night,  that  hoss,  that  *ar 

filly,  Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all 

quiet  and  dripping : 
Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of 

harness. 
Just  as  she  swam  the  Fork,  —  that  hoss,  that  'ar 

filly,  Chiquita. 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss !  and  —  what  did  you  say? 

—  Oh,  the  nevvy? 

Drownded,  I  reckon,  —  leastways,  he  never  kem 

back  to  deny  it. 
Ye  see  the  durned  fool  had  no  seat;  ye  could  n't 

have  made  him  a  rider; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  bosses 

—  well,  bosses  is  bosses ! 

Bret  Harie 

RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 

Twenty  abreast  down  the  Golden  Street  ten  thou- 
sand riders  marched  — 
Bow-legged  boys  in  their  swinging  chaps,  all 
climisily  keeping  time; 


RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS  ii 

And  the  Angel  Host,  to  the  lone,  last  ghost,  their 
delicate  eyebrows  arched 
As  the  swaggering  sons  of  the  open  range  drew 
up  to  the  Throne  Sublime. 

Gaunt  and  grizzled  a  Texas  man  from  out  of  the 
concourse  strode; 
He  doffed  his  hat  with  a  rude,  rough  grace,  then 
lifted  his  eagle  head 
As  the  sunlit  air  on  his  silvered  hair  and  the  bronze 
of  his  visage  glowed: 
"  Marster,  the  boys  have  a  talk  to  make  on  the 
things  up  here,"  he  said. 

Then  a  hush  ran  over  the  waiting  throng  as  the 
Cherubim  replied: 
"  He   that   weigheth   the   hearts   of   men,   He 
deemeth  your  challenge  strange, 
Though  He  long  hath  known  that  ye  crave  your 
own;  that  ye  would  not  walk,  but  ride, 
O  restless  sons  of  the  ancient  earth,  ye  men  of 
the  open  range ! " 

Then  warily  spake  the  Texas  man:  "  A  petition  and 
no  complaint 
We  here  present  if  the  Law  allows  and  the  Mars- 
ter He  thinks  it  fit; 
We  all  agree  to  the  things  that  be,  but  we're  long- 
ing for  things  that  ain't, 
So  we  took  a  vote  and  we  made  a  plan,  and  here 
is  the  plan  we  writ: 


12  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

*^Give  us  a  range,  our  horses  and  ropes;  open  the 
Pearly  Gate; 
Turn  us  loose  in  the  unfenced  blue,  riding  the 
sunset  rounds. 
Hunting  each  stray  in  the  Milky  Way  and  running 
the  rancho  straight. 
Not  crowding  the  dogie  stars  too  much  on  their 
way  to  the  bedding  grounds. 

^^  Maverick  comets  that^s  running  wild,  we  HI  rope 
'em  and  brand  'cm  fair, 
So  they  HI  quit  stampeding  the  starry  herd;  no 
rustling  or  blotting  brands; 
And  we  HI  save  'cm  prime  for  the  round-up  time, 
and  us  riders  will  all  be  there. 
Ready  and  willing  to  do  our  work  as  we  did  on 
the  mesa  lands. 


^^  Long  we*ve  studied  the  landmarks.  Sir;  Taurus, 
the  Bear  and  Mars, 
Venus  a-smiling  across  the  west  as  bright  as  a 
burning  coal; 
Plain  to  guide  as  we  punchers  ride,  night-herding 
the  milling  stars. 
With  Saturn's  rings  for  a  home  corral  and  the 
Dipper  our  water  hole. 


"  Here  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  yarn  of  the  times 
that  have  long  gone  by; 
And  our  singing,  it  does  nHfi.t  in  up  here,  though 
we^ve  tried  it  for  old  times*  sake; 


THE  RANGE  RIDER  13 

Our  hands  are  itching  to  swing  a  rope;  our  legs  are 
stiff:  that^s  why 
We  ask  youy  Marster,  to  turn  us  loose;  just  give 
us  an  even  break!  ^* 

Then  the  Lord  He  spake  to  the  Cherubim,  and  this 
was  His  kindly  word : 
"He  that  keepeth  the  threefold  keys  shall  open 
and  let  them  go; 
Turn  these  men  to  their  work  again  to  ride  with  the 
starry  herd; 
My  glory  sings  in  the  toil  they  crave ;  't  is  theirs 
...  I  would  have  it  so." 

Have  you  heard  in  the  starlit  dusk  of  eve,  when  the 
lean  coyotes  roam, 
The  Yip !  Yip !  Yip !  of  their  hunting  cry  and  the 
echo  that  shrilled  afar. 
While  you  listened  still  on  a  desert  hill  and  gazed 
at  the  twinkling  dome 
As  a  viewless  rider  swept  the  sky  on  the  trail  of  a 
shooting  star? 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

THE  RANGE  RIDER 

Up  and  saddle  at  daybreak. 

Into  the  hills  with  the  light, 
While  still  on  pinon  and  cedar 

Lingers  the  wings  of  night; 
Clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  canon. 

Scatter  of  horns  on  the  trail; 
Dim  forms  lost  in  the  chaparral, 

Fleeing  like  frightened  quail. 


14  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Follow!  the  deer  behind  them 

Pant  in  a  beaten  race; 
Light  in  its  flight  is  slower 

Than  a  mountain  steer  in  chase. 
'Ware!  That  black  bull  charges; 

Head  down,  red  eyes  aglow; 
Crack !  Crack !  the  pistol  flashes  — 

■'God,  but  a  noble  foe ! 

His  black  bulk  reels  from  the  pathway, 

The  horses  reek  and  sweat; 
Unsaddle  a  space  and  breathe  them, 

The  day's  before  us  yet: 
Look  back  from  our  bed  of  bracken 

Here  on  the  world's  green  roof 
You  'd  lie  at  less  ease  in  the  green  below 

But  for  pistol  and  sure-set  hoof. 

What !  Is  your  nerve  so  shaken? 

A  man  can  die  but  once ! 
Who  shirks  the  game  for  the  chance-sent  end 

Is  a  coward  soul,  or  a  dunce. 
The  turn  of  a  loose-cinched  saddle. 

The  plunge  of  a  keen-curved  horn  — 
Play  down  to-day  —  and  to-morrow 

Who  cares  that  we  were  born ! 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 

BURRO 

Beloved  vagrant  of  the  ample  ear; 

Philosopher ;  gray  hobo  of  the  dunes ; 
Delight  of  children;  thistle-chewing  seer. 

From  Lebanon  and  eld,  how  many  moons? 


BURRO  15 


Muse  of  manana;  sturdy  foe  of  haste, 
Complacent  in  your  poise,  your  attitude; 

A  statue  of  dejection,  shaggy-faced. 

Or  plodding  with  your  pack  of  cedar  wood; 

Pausing  to  turn  your  head,  with  motion  stiff, 
As  though  you  half-imagined  something  v/rong; 

Wondering  if  you  were  there,  complete,  or  if 
The  rest  of  you  forgot  to  come  along. 

What  melancholy  thoughts  bestir  your  breast, 
When,  like  an  ancient  pump,  you  lift  a  tone, 

Lose  it  and  lift  another,  with  a  zest 

Known  to  no  beast  on  earth  save  you  alone? 

Your  melody  means  something  deep,  unseen, 
A  storied  mem'ry  of  some  old  Romance, 

And  ears  attimed  to  mysteries,  might  glean 
More  from  your  song  than  simple  assonance. 

You  sing  the  Truth,  without  a  touch  of  guile, 
And  Truth  were  sad  enough  —  and  yet  your  guise 

Of  March-mad  melancholy  moves  a  smile, 
And  thus  the  world  is  richer,  burro-wise: 

Richer,  because  you  are  yourself;  you  please 
That  subtle  sense  that  loves  the  ludicrous, 

Scorning  no  lesson.  Oh,  Demosthenes 
Of  Andalusia,  left  to  preach  to  us ! 

Dogging  the  sunlight  of  some  empty  street 
Content  with  what  your  indolence  may  find  — 

Let  the  world  rock,  and  you  will  keep  your  feet; 
Let  the  world  run,  and  you  will  stray  behind. 

O.  R. 


i6  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


LASCA 

I  want  free  life  and  I  want  fresh  air; 

And  I  long  for  the  gallop  after  the  cattle 

In  their  frantic  flight,  like  the  roar  of  battle; 

The  melee  of  horns,  and  hoofs,  and  heads 

That  wars  and  wrangles  and  scatters  and  spreads  — 

The  green  beneath  and  the  blue  above, 

And  dash  and  danger,  and  life  and  love  — 

And  Lascal 

Lasca  used  to  ride 
On  a  mouse-gray  mustang,  close  to  my  side, 
With  blue  serape  and  bright-belled  spur; 
I  laughed  with  joy  as  I  looked  at  her! 
Little  knew  she  of  books  or  creeds; 
An  A  ve  Maria  sufficed  her  needs. 
Little  she  cared,  save  to  be  by  my  side. 
To  ride  with  me,  and  ever  to  ride, 
From  San  Saba's  shore  to  Lavaca's  tide. 
She  was  as  bold  as  the  billows  that  beat,  ^• 
She  was  as  wild  as  the  breezes  that  blow; 
From  her  little  head  to  her  little  feet 
She  was  swayed  in  her  suppleness  to  and  fro 
By  each  gust  of  passion;  a  sapling  pine. 
That  clings  to  the  edge  of  a  beetling  bluff, 
And  wars  with  the  wind  when  the  weather  is 

rough. 
Is  like  this  Lasca,  this  love  of  mine. 
She  would  hunger,  that  I  might  eat, 
She  'd  take  the  bitter  and  leave  me  the  sweet; 
But  once,  when  I  made  her  jealous  for  fun. 
At  something  I  'd  whispered,  or  looked,  or  done 

One  Sunday,  in  San  Antonio, 


LASCA  17 

To  a  glorious  girl  on  the  Alamo, 
She  drew  from  her  garter  a  dear  little  dagger, 
And  ^  sting  of  a  wasp  !^  it  made  me  stag- 
ger— 
An  inch  to  the  left  or  an  inch  to  the  right, 
And  I  would  n't  be  maundering  here  to-night; 
But  she  sobbed,  and,  sobbing,  so  swiftly  bound 
Her  torn  rebosa  about  the  wound 
That  I  quite  forgave  her.  Scratches  don't  count 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 

Her  eye  was  brown, —  a  deep,  deep  brown; 
Her  hair  was  darker  than  her  eye ; 
And  something  in  her  smile  and  frown, 
Curled  crimson  lip,  and  instep  high. 
Showed  that  there  ran  in  each  blue  vein, 
Mixed  v/ith  the  milder  Aztec  strain. 
The  vigorous  vintage  of  old  Spain, 
She  was  alive  in  every  limb 
With  feeling,  to  the  finger  tips; 
And  when  the  sun  is  like  a  fire. 
And  the  sky  one  shining,  soft  sapphire  — 
One  does  not  drink  in  little  sips. 
*     *     * 

The  air  was  heavy,  the  night  was  hot, 
I  sat  by  her  side,  and  forgot  —  forgot; 
Forgot  the  herd  that  was  taking  its  rest. 
Forgot  that  the  air  was  close  oppressed  — 
That  the  Texas  norther  comes  without  warn- 
ing, 
In  the  dead  of  night  or  the  dawn  of  morning  — • 
And  once  let  the  herd  at  its  breath  take  fright, 
And  nothing  on  earth  can  stop  its  flight; 


i8  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

And  woe  to  the  rider,  and  woe  to  the  steed, 
That  falls  in  front  of  its  mad  stampede ! 

Hark !  was  that  thunder?  No,  by  the  Lord ! 
I  sprang  to  my  saddle  without  a  word : 
One  foot  on  mine,  and  she  clung  behind  — 
Away !  on  a  wild  chase  down  the  wind ! 
And  never  was  fox-chase  half  so  hard. 
And  never  was  steed  so  little  spared  — 
Per  we  rode  for  our  lives:  you  shall  hear  how  we 
fared 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 

The  mustang  fiew,  and  we  urged  him  on; 

There  was  one  chance  left,  and   you  have  but 

one  — 
Halt,  jump  to  the  ground,  and  shoot  your  horse. 
Crouch  under  his  carcass,  and  take  your  chance; 
And  if  the  steers,  in  their  frantic  course, 
Don't  batter  you  both  to  pieces  at  once. 
You  may  thank  your  star;  or  else,  good-bye 
To  the  quickening  kiss  and  the  long-drawn  sigh, 
To  the  balmy  air  and  the  open  sky, 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 

The  cattle  gained  on  us  —  and,  just  as  I  felt 
For  my  old  six-shooter  behind  in  my  belt, 
Down  came  the  mustang,  and  down  came  we. 
Clinging  together,  and  —  what  was  the  rest  —  ? 
A  body  that  spread  itself  over  my  breast, 
Two  arms  that  shielded  my  dizzy  head. 
Two  lips  that  close  to  my  lips  were  pressed; 


THE  PONY  EXPRESS  19 

Then  came  thunder  into  my  ears 
As  over  us  surged  the  sea  of  steers, 
Blows  that  beat  blood  into  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  could  rise  — 
Lasca  was  dead ! 

*     *     * 

I  gouged  out  a  grave  a  few  feet  deep. 
And  there  in  Earth's  bosom  I  laid  her  to  sleep; 
And  there  she  is  lying  —  and  no  one  knows  — 
'Neath  summer's  sun  and  winter's  snows; 
Full  many  a  day  the  flowers  have  spread 
A  pall  of  petals  over  her  head. 

And  the  little  gray  hawk  hangs  aloft  in  the  air, 
And  the  sly  coyote  trots  here  and  there. 
And  the  black  snake  glides,  and  glitters  and  slides 
Into  a  rift  in  the  cotton-wood  tree. 
And  the  buzzard  sails  on  — 
And  comes  and  is  gone  — 
Stately  and  still,  like  a  ship  at  sea. 
And  I  wonder  why  I  do  not  care 
For  the  things  that  are,  like  the  things  that  were  — 
Does  half  my  heart  lie  buried  there 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande? 

Frank  Desprez 


THE  PONY  EXPRESS 

The  eddies  swirl  in  the  treacherous  ford. 
And  the  clouds  gather  dark  ahead ; 

And  over  the  plain,  where  the  sunlight  poured. 
Scarce  a  gleam  does  the  pale  moon  shed. 


20  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  pony  drinks,  but  with  gasp  and  sob, 

And  wan  is  the  man  at  its  side ; 
The  way  has  been  long,  past  butte  and  knob, 

And  still  he  must  ride  and  ride. 

Now  the  cinch  is  drawn  and  the  plunge  is 
made, 

And  the  bank  of  the  stream  is  gained ; 
Eyes  study  the  darkness,  unafraid, 

And  ne'er  is  the  good  horse  reined. 

And  the  hoof-beats  die  on  the  prairie  vast. 
To  the  lone  wolf's  answerii7.g  wail  — 

Thus  the  ghost  of  the  Pony  Express  goes  past 
On  the  grass-grown  Overland  Trail. 

Arthur  Chapman 


THE  TRAIL  OF  DEATH 

We  rode  from  daybreak;  white  and  hot 

The  sun  beat  like  a  hammer-stroke 
On  molten  iron;  the  blistered  dust 

Rose  up  in  clouds  to  sear  and  choke; 
But  on  we  rode,  gray-white  as  ghosts, 

Bepowdered  with  that  bitter  snow. 
The  stinging  breath  of  alkali 

From  the  grim,  crusted  earth  below. 

Silent,  our  footsteps  scarcely  wrung 
An  echo  from  the  sullen  trail; 

Silent,  parched  lip  and  stiffening  tongue, 
We  watched  the  horses  fall  and  fail : 


THE  TRAIL  OF  DEATH  21 

Jack's  first;  he  caught  my  stirrup  strap;  — 
God  help  me!  but  I  shook  him  off; 

Death  had  not  diced  for  two  that  day 
To  meet  him  in  that  DeviPs  trough. 


I  flung  him  back  my  dry  canteen, 

An  ounce  at  most,  weighed  drop  by  drop 
"With  life;  he  clutched  it,  drank,  and  laughed  — 

Hard,  hideous  —  a  peal  to  stop 
The  strongest  heart  —  then  turned  and  ran 

With  arms  outflung  and  mad  eyes  set, 
Straight  on  where  'gainst  the  dun  sky's  rim 

Green  trees  stood  up,  and  cool  and  wet,  . 


Long  silver  waves  broke  on  the  sand. 

The  cursed  mirage !  that  lures  and  taunts 
The  thirst-scourged  lip  and  tortured  sight 

Like  some  lost  hope  that  mocking  haunts 
A  dying  soul.  I  tried  to  call, 

The  dry  words  rattled  in  my  throat; 
And  sun  and  sand  and  crouching  sky  — • 

God !  How  they  seemed  to  glare  and  gloat ! 


Reeling  I  caught  the  saddle-horn ; 

On,  on;  but  now  it  seemed  to  be 
The  spring-house  path,  and  at  the  well 

My  mother  stood  and  beckoned  me: 
The  bucket  glistened ;  drip,  drip,  drip, 

I  heard  the  water  fall  and  plash ; 
Then  keen  as  hell  the  burning  wind  ■ 

Awoke  me  with  its  fiery  lash. 


SONGS  OF  HORSES 


On,  on ;  what  was  that  bleaching  thing 

Across  the  trail?  I  dared  not  look; 
But  on  —  blind,  aimless,  till  the  sun 

Crept  grudging  past  the  hills  and  took 
His  curse  from  off  the  gasping  land. 

The  blessed  dusk!  my  gaunt  horse  raised 
His  head  and  neighed,  and  staggered  on; 

And  I,  with  bleeding  lips,  half-crazed. 

Laughed  out ;  for  just  above  us  there. 

Rock-caught  against  a  blackened  ledge 
A  little  pool;  one  last  hard  climb; 

Full  spent  we  fell  upon  its  edge  — 
One  still  forever.  Weak  I  lay 

And  drank;  hot  hands  and  temples  laved: 
Jack  gone,  alas!  the  horses  dead; 

But  night  and  water  —  I  was  saved ! 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER 

When  my  trail  stretches  out  to  the  edge  of  the  sky 
Through  the  desert  so  empty  and  bright, 

When  I  *m  watchin'  the  miles  as  they  go  crawlin'  by 
And  a-hopin*  I  '11  get  there  by  night. 

Then  my  hawse  never  speaks  through  the  long 
sunny  day. 
But  my  saddle  he  sings  in  his  creaky  old  way: 

"  Easy  —  easy  —  easy  — 
For  a  temperit  pace  ainH  a  crime. 
Let  your  mount  hit  it  steady,  but  give  him  his 
ease. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER  23 

For  the  sun  hammers  hard  and  there  ^s  never  a 
breeze. 
We  kin  get  there  in  plenty  of  time.^^ 

When  I'm  after  some  critter  that's  hit  the  high 
lope, 
And  a-spurrin'  my  hawse  till  he  flies, 
When  I'm  watchin'  the  chances  for  throwin'  my 
rope, 
And  a-winkin'  the  sweat  from  my  eyes, 
Then  the  leathers  they  squeal  with  the  lunge  and 
the  swing, 
And  I  work  to  the  livelier  time  that  they  sing : 

"Reach  Hm!  reach  Hm!  reach  Hm! 

If  you  lather  your  hawse  to  the  heel! 
There 's  a  time  to  he  slow  and  a  time  to  be  quick; 
Never  mind  if  it 's  rough  and  the  bushes  are  thick  — 

Pull  your  hat  down  and  fling  in  the  steel!  ^* 

When  I  've  rustled  all  day  till  I  'm  achin'  for  rest 
And  I  'm  ordered  a  night-guard  to  ride. 

With  the  tired  little  moon  hangin'  low  in  the  west 
And  my  sleepiness  fightin'  my  pride. 

Then  I  nod  and  I  blink  at  the  dark  herd  below, 
And  the  saddle  he  sings  as  my  hawse  paces  slow: 

"  Sleepy  —  sleepy  —  sleepy  — 
We  was  ordered  a  close  watch  to  keepy 
But  Pll  sing  you  a  song  in  a  drowsy  old  key; 
All  the  world  is  a-snoozin'  so  why  should  n^t  we? 
Go  to  sleepy  pardner  mine^  go  to  sleep.^^ 

Badger  Clark 


24  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

THE  OV  COW  HAWSE 

When  it  comes  to  saddle  hawses,  there 's  a  differ- 
ence in  steeds: 
There  is  fancy-gaited  critters  that  will  suit  some 

feller's  needs; 
There  is  nags  high-bred  an'  tony,  with  a  smooth  an' 

shiny  skin, 
That  will  capture  all  the  races  that  you  want  to  run 

'em  in. 
But  fer  one  that  never  tires;  one  that's  faithful, 

tried  and  true; 
One  that  alius  is  a  "  stayer "  when  you  want  to 

slam  him  through  — 
There  is  but  one  breed  o'  critters  that  I  ever  came 

across 
That  will  alius  stand  the  racket :  't  is  the  — 
01'  cow  hawse ! 

No,  he  ain't  so  much  for  beauty,  fer  he 's  scrubby 

an'  he 's  rough, 
An'  his  temper 's  sort  o'  sassy,  but  you  bet  he 's 

good  enough! 
Fer  he  '11  take  the  trail  o'  mornin's,  be  it  up  or  be  it 

down, 
On  the  range  a-huntin'  cattle  or  a-lopin'  into  town. 
An'  he'll  leave  the  miles  behind  him,  an'  he'll 

never  sweat  a  hair, 
'Cuz  he 's  a  willin'  critter  when  he 's  goin'  anyv/here. 
Oh,  your  thoroughbred  at  runnin'  in  a  race  may  be 

the  boss, 
But  fer  all  day  ridin'  lemme  have  the  — 
01'  cow  hawse ! 


THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE  25 

When  my  soul  seeks  peace  and  quiet  on  the  Home 

Ranch  of  the  blest, 
Where  no  storms  or  stampedes  bother,  an*  the 

trails  are  trails  o'  rest, 
When  my  brand  has  been  inspected  an'  pronounced 

to  be  O  K, 
An*  the  boss  has  looked  me  over  an*  has  told  me  I 

kin  stay. 
Oh,  I*m  hopin*  when  I'm  lopin*  off  across  that 

blessed  range 
That  I  won't  be  in  a  saddle  on  a  critter  new  an* 

strange, 
But  I  *m  prayin*  every  minnit  that  up  there  I  '11  ride 

across 
That  big  heaven  range  0'  glory  on  an  — • 
or  cow  hawse ! 

E.  A,  Brinninstool 


THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE 

Colt  she  was  when  I  spied  her,  stray  on  the  open 
range ; 
Starvin'  poor,  for  the  feed  was  thin  and  water- 
holes  far  between. 
I  roped  her  and  threw  and  tied  her,  for  I  saw  she 
was  actin'  strange ; 
And  on  her  breast  was  a  barb-wire  cut  —  the 
worst  I  have  ever  seen. 

Talk    about    nursin' !  Maybe    that    boss    was  n't 
raised  by  hand ! 
Boys  they  joshed  when  they  saddled  up  and  when 
they  rode  in  at  night; 


26  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

"  S-s-s-h!  Don't  you  wake  the  baby!  Say,  can't 
you  understand  — 
Cussin'  don't  go  in  this  horsepital,  or  Doc  '11  get 
mad  and  bite ! " 


Look  at  her  now!  Like  copper,  shinin*  and  sleek 
and  strong! 
Follow  a  mountain  trail  all  day  and  finish  a-step- 
pin'  high. 
Nothin'  out  here  can  stop  her,  and  she  lopes  like  a 
swallow's  song. 
Wicked  as  fire  to  a  stranger  —  but  as  gentle  to 
me  as  pie. 


Look  at  her  straight-up  ears,  now,  listenin'  to  you 
and  me! 
Her  eyes  are  askin'  questions;  wonderin'  what 's 
to  do. 
Understands  what  she  hears?  Now,  watch  when  I 
call  and  see 
How  she  '11  circle  around  to  my  side  and  flatten 
her  ears  at  you. 


Bronco?  Yes  —  don't  pay  to  quirt  her.  I  'm  bronco 
myself,  some  days, 
Pitchin'  when  luck  is  a-ridin'  me  hard  and  pilin' 
it  if  I  can. 
But  a  quick,  hard  word  will  hurt  her  —  for  a  boss 
has  peculiar  ways; 
Use  any  boss  like  a  human  and  he  '11  treat  you 
just  like  a  man. 


THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE  27 

You  'd  ride  her?  That 's  not  surprising  for  judgin' 
your  legs,  you  could. 
But  flowers  are  scarce  at  this  time  of  year  and 
there  is  n't  a  parson  nigh. 
She  sure  needs  exercisin' ;  't  would  do  her  a  lot  of 
good, 
But  I  'd  hate  to  see  you  a-flyin',  'cause  you  ain't 
built  right  to  fly. 

Remember  that  old-time  sayin',  cinched  up  in  a 
two-bit  rhyme? 
"  There  is  n't  a  boss  that  can't  be  rode."  And 
many  a  rider  tries, 
But  when  it  comes  to  stayin',  why,  you  can't  stay 
every  time; 
"  There  is  n't  a  man  that  can't  be  throwed  "  is 
the  place  where  the  song  gets  wise. 

"  That  roan  cayuse  of  the  Concho  " :  when  a  boss 
has  a  name  like  that, 
You   can   figure   its   reputation   without   askin* 
another  word. 
You  can  roll  it  up  in  your  poncho,  or  bury  it  under 
your  hat. 
It 's  just  like  that  picture-writin'  —  means  lots 
that  you  have  n't  heard. 

You  straighten  them  ears  up  pronto !  You,  showin' 
your  teeth  at  me ! 
Here,  now,  you  quit  your  bitin'  —  do  you  think 
I  'm  a  bale  of  hay? 


28  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

You  'd  buy  her?  She  heard  you  say  it  —  ears  flat 
and  eye  rollin',  see ! 
Well,  she  is  the  lady  to  talk  to  —  and  I  guess 
that 's  your  answer,  eh? 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

WHEN  YOU'RE  THRO  WED 

If  a  feller 's  been  a-straddle 
Since  he 's  big  enough  to  ride, 
And  has  had  to  sling  his  saddle 
On  most  any  colored  hide,  — 
Though  it 's  nothin'  they  take  pride  in, 
Still  most  fellers  I  have  knowed, 
If  they  ever  done  much  ridin'. 
Has  at  different  times  got  throwed. 

All  the  boys  start  out  together 
For  the  round-up  some  fine  day 
When  you  're  due  to  throw  your  leather 
On  a  little  wall-eyed  bay. 
An'  he  swells  to  beat  the  nation 
When  you  're  cinchin'  up  the  slack, 
An'  he  keeps  an  elevation 
In  your  saddle  at  the  back. 

He  stands  still  with  feet  a-sprawlin', 
An'  his  eye  shows  lots  of  white, 
An'  he  kinks  his  spinal  column. 
An'  his  hide  is  puckered  tight. 
He  starts  risin'  an'  a-jimipin'. 
An'  he  strikes  when  you  get  near. 
An'  you  cuss  him  an'  you  thump  him 
Till  you  get  him  by  the  ear,  — 


WHEN  YOU'RE  THROWED  29 

Then  your  right  hand  grabs  the  saddle 
An'  you  ketch  your  stirrup,  too, 
An'  you  try  to  light  a-straddle 
Like  a  woolly  buckaroo; 
But  he  drops  his  head  an'  switches, 
Then  he  makes  a  backward  jump. 
Out  of  reach  your  stirrup  twitches 
But  your  right  spur  grabs  his  hump. 


An'  "  Stay  with  him! "  shouts  some  feller; 
Though  you  know  it 's  hope  forlorn. 
Yet  you  '11  show  that  you  ain't  yeller 
An'  you  choke  the  saddle  horn. 
Then  you  feel  one  rein  a-droppin' 
An'  you  know  he 's  got  his  head ; 
An'  your  shirt  tail 's  out  an'  floppin' ; 
An'  the  saddle  pulls  like  lead. 


Then  the  boys  all  yell  together 

Fit  to  make  a  feller  sick: 

"  Hey,  you  short  horn,  drop  the  leather! 

Fan  his  fat  an'  ride  him  slick  1 " 

Seems  you  're  up-side-down  an'  flyin', 

Then  your  spurs  begin  to  slip. 

There 's  no  further  use  in  tryin', 

For  the  horn  flies  from  your  grip, 


An'  you  feel  a  vague  sensation 
As  upon  the  ground  you  roll, 
Like  a  violent  separation 
'T  wixt  your  body  an'  your  soul. 


30  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  you  roll  agin  a  hummock 
Where  you  lay  an*  gasp  for  breath, 
An'  there 's  somethin'  grips  your  stomach 
Like  the  finger-grips  o'  death. 

They  all  offers  you  prescriptions 
For  the  grip  an'  for  the  croup, 
An'  they  give  you  plain  descriptions 
How  you  looped  the  spiral  loop ; 
They  all  swear  you  beat  a  circus 
Or  a  hoochy-koochy  dance, 
Moppin'  up  the  caiion's  surface 
With  the  bosom  of  your  pants. 

Then  you  '11  get  up  on  your  trotters, 

But  you  have  a  job  to  stand ; 

For  the  landscape  round  you  totters 

An'  your  collar 's  full  o'  sand. 

Lots  of  fellers  give  prescriptions 

How  a  broncho  should  be  rode. 

But  there 's  few  that  gives  descriptions 

Of  the  times  when  they  got  throwed. 

Anonymous 

A  SADDLE-SONG 

To  horse !  as  rode  the  knights  of  old  for  tourney  and 

affray; 
To  horse!  the  world  is  wide,  and  ours,  free  heart 

and  summer  day: 
Oh!  Laughter  now  shall  be  our  god  and  every  care 

take  wings. 
And  we  '11  take  our  marching  orders  from  the  song 

the  saddle  sings. 


MARTA  OF  MILRONE  31 

The  gipsy  blood  is  coursing  red  along  each  leaping 

vein; 
V/e  are  brothers  to  the  bursting  flower  and  kindred 

with  the  rain: 
How  the  voice  of  Nature  calls  us !  How  it  beckons  I 

How  it  rings, 
In  the  echoes  of  the  marching  song  the  old  saddle 

sings ! 

The  fir  trees  standing  sentinel  upon  the  mountain's 

crest 
Have  sent  their  message  on  the  wind  to  fill  us  with 

unrest; 
To  mingle  with  our  dreams  the  scent  the  healing 

balsam  flings, 
And  blend  the  forest  whispers  with  the  song  the 

saddle  sings. 

O  jingling  spur  and  rattling  rein,  brown  earth  and 
bending  sky, 

We  turn  to  you  to  brim  again  the  cup  of  life  run  dry; 

Take  toll  of  all  the  fancied  gain  that  hard-spent 
striving  brings. 

But  set  our  days  in  measure  with  the  song  the  sad- 
dle sings. 

Sharlot  M,  Hall 


MARTA  OF  MILRONE 

I  shot  him  where  the  Rio  flows; 
I  shot  him  when  the  moon  arose; 
And  where  he  lies  the  vulture  knows  — 
Along  the  Tinto  River. 


32  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

In  schools  of  eastern  culture,  pale, 
My  cloistered  flesh  began  to  fail; 
They  bore  me  where  the  deserts  quail 
To  winds  from  out  the  sun. 

I  looked  upon  the  land  and  sky, 
Nor  hoped  to  live  nor  feared  to  die; 
And  from  my  hollow  breast  a  sigh 
Fell  o*er  the  burning  waste. 

But  strong  I  grew  and  tall  I  grew; 
I  drank  the  region's  balm  and  dew,  — 
It  made  me  lithe  in  limb  and  thew,  — 
How  swift  I  rode  and  ran ! 

») 
And  oft  it  was  my  joy  to  ride 
Over  the  sand-blown  ocean  wide 
While,  ever  smiling  at  my  side, 
Rode  Marta  of  Milrone. 

A  flood  of  horned  heads  before, 
The  trampled  thunder,  smoke  and  roar, 
Of  full  four  thousand  hoofs,  or  more  — 
A  cloud,  a  sea,  a  storm ! 

O !  wonderful  the  desert  gleamed. 
As,  man  and  maid,  we  spoke  and  dreamed 
Of  love  in  life,  till  white  wastes  seemed 
Like  plains  of  paradise. 

Her  eyes  with  Love's  great  magic  shone : 
"  Be  mine,  O  Marta  of  Milrone,  — 
Your  hand,  your  heart  be  all  my  own! "  — ■ 
Her  lips  made  sweet  response: 


MARTA  OF  MILRONE  33 

"  I  love  you,  yes;  for  you  are  he 
Who  from  the  East  should  come  to  me  ^ 
And  I  have  waited  long ! "  Oh,  we 
Were  happy  as  the  sun. 

There  came  upon  a  hopeless  quest, 
With  hell  and  hatred  in  his  breast, 
A  stranger,  v/ho  his  love  confessed 
To  Marta  long  in  vain. 

To  me  she  spoke:  "  O  chosen  mate, 
His  eyes  are  terrible  with  fate,  — 
I  fear  his  love,  I  fear  his  hate,  — 
I  fear  some  looming  ill ! " 

Then  to  the  church  we  twain  did  ride, 
I  kissed  her  as  she  rode  beside; 
How  fair  —  how  passing  fair  my  bride 
With  golden  combs  in  her  hair! 

Before  the  Spanish  priest  we  stood 
Of  San  Gregorio's  brotherhood  — 
A  shot  rang  out !  —  and  in  her  blood 
My  dark-eyed  darling  lay. 

0  God !  I  carried  her  beside 

The  Virgin's  altar  where  she  cried,  — • 
Smiling  upon  me  ere  she  died,  — 
"  Adieu,  my  love,  adieu !  " 

1  knelt  before  St.  Mary's  shrine 

And  held  my  dead  one's  hand  in  mine, 
"  Vengeance,"  I  cried,  "  O  Lord,  be  thine. 
But  I  thy  minister !  '* 


34  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

I  kissed  her  thrice  and  sealed  my  vow,  — 
Her  eyes,  her  sea-cold  lips  and  brow,  — 
"  Farewell,  my  heart  is  dying  now, 

0  Marta  of  Milrone !  '* 

Then  swift  upon  my  steed  I  leapt; 
My  streaming  eyes  the  desert  swept; 

1  saw  the  accursed  where  he  crept 
Against  the  blood-red  sun. 

I  galloped  straight  upon  his  track, 
And  never  more  my  eyes  looked  back; 
The  world  was  barred  with  red  and  black; 
My  heart  was  flaming  coal. 

On,  through  delirious  twilight  dim 
And  the  black  night  I  followed  him ; 
Hills  did  we  cross  and  rivers  swim,  — 
My  fleet-foot  horse  and  I. 

The  morn  burst  red,  a  gory  wound, 
O'er  iron  hills  and  savage  ground; 
And  there  was  never  another  sound 
Save  beat  of  horses'  hoofs: 

Unto  the  murderer's  ear  they  said, 

"  Thou  'rt  of  the  dead!   Thou  'rt  of  the  dead!  "^ 

Still  on  his  stallion,  black,  he  sped 

While  death  spurred  on  behind. 

Fiery  dust  from  the  blasted  plain 
Burnt  like  lava  in  ev'ry  vein; 
But  I  rode  on  with  steady  rein 
Though  the  fierce  sand-devils  spim. 


MARTA  OF  MILRONE  35 

Then  to  a  sullen  land  we  came, 

Whose  earth  was  brass,  whose  sky  was  flame; 

I  made  it  balm  with  her  blest  name 

In  the  land  of  Mexico. 

With  gasp  and  groan  my  poor  horse  fell,  — 
Last  of  all  things  that  loved  me  well ! 
I  turned  my  head  —  a  smoking  shell 
Veiled  me  his  dying  throes. 

But  fast  on  vengeful  foot  was  I; 
His  steed  fell,  too,  and  was  left  to  die; 
He  fled  where  a  river's  channel  dry 
Made  way  to  the  rolling  stream. 

Red  as  my  rage  the  huge  sun  sank. 
My  foe  bent  low  on  the  river's  bank 
And  deep  of  the  kindly  flood  he  drank 
While  the  giant  stars  broke  forth. 

Then  face  to  face  and  man  to  man 
I  fought  him  where  the  river  ran. 
While  the  trembling  palm  held  up  its  fan 
And  emerald  serpents  lay. 

The  mad,  remorseless  bullets  broke 
From  tongues  of  flame  in  the  sulphur  smoke ; 
The  air  was  rent  till  the  desert  spoke 
To  the  echoing  hills  afar. 

Hot  from  his  lips  the  curses  burst ; 
He  fell!  The  sands  were  slaked  of  thirst; 
A  stream  in  the  stream  ran  dark  at  first, 
And  the  stones  grew  red  as  hearts. 


36  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

I  shot  him  where  the  Rio  flows ; 
I  shot  him  when  the  moon  arose ; 
And  where  he  lies  the  vulture  knows  — 
Along  the  Tinto  River. 

But  where  she  lies  to  none  is  known 
Save  to  my  poor  heart  and  a  lonely  stone 
On  which  I  sit  and  weep  alone 
Where  the  cactus  stars  are  white. 

Where  I  shall  lie,  no  man  can  say ; 
The  flowers  all  are  fallen  away; 
The  desert  is  so  drear  and  grey, 
O  Marta  of  Milrone ! 

Herman  Scheffauer 


PARDNERS 

You  bad-eyed,  tough-mouthed  son-of-a-gun, 

Ye  're  a  hard  little  beast  to  break, 

But  ye  're  good  for  the  fiercest  kind  of  a  run 

An'  ye  're  quick  as  a  rattlesnake. 

Ye  jolted  me  good  when  we  first  met 

In  the  dust  of  that  bare  corral, 

An'  neither  one  of  us  will  forget 

The  fight  we  fit,  old  pal. 

But  now  —  well,  say,  old  boss,  if  John 

D.  Rockefeller  shud  come 

With  all  the  riches  his  paws  are  on 

And  want  to  buy  you,  you  bum, 

I  'd  laugh  in  his  face  an'  pat  your  neck 

An'  say  to  him  loud  an'  strong : 


THE  MEETING  37 

"  I  would  n't  sell  you  this  durned  old  wreck 
For  all  your  wealth  —  so  long!  '* 

For  we  have  slept  on  the  barren  plains 

An'  cuddled  against  the  cold ; 

We  've  been  through  tempests  of  drivin'  rains 

When  the  heaviest  thunder  rolled; 

We  've  raced  from  fire  on  the  lone  prairee 

An'  run  from  the  mad  stampede ; 

An'  there  ain't  no  money  could  buy  from  me 

A  pard  of  your  style  an'  breed. 

So  I  reckon  we  '11  stick  together,  pard, 

Till  one  of  us  cashes  in; 

Ye  're  wiry  an'  tough  an'  mighty  hard, 

An'  homelier,  too,  than  sin. 

But  yer  head 's  all  there  an'  yer  heart 's  all 

right, 
An'  you  've  been  a  good  pardner,  too. 
An'  if  ye  've  a  soul,  it 's  clean  an'  white, 
You  ugly  ol'  scoundrel,  you ! 

Berton  Br  ale  y 

THE  MEETING 

When  walkin'  down  a  city  street, 

Two  thousand  miles  from  home. 
The  pavestones  hurtin'  of  the  feet 

That  never  ought  to  roam, 
A  pony  just  reached  to  one  side 

And  grabbed  me  by  the  clothes; 
He  smelled  the  sagebrush,  durn  his  hide! 

You  bet  a  pony  knows ! 


38  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

I  stopped  and  petted  him,  and  seen 

A  brand  upon  his  side; 
I  '11  bet,  across  the  prairie  green, 

He  useter  hit  his  stride; 
Some  puncher  of  the  gentle  cow 

Had  owned  him  —  that  I  knows ; 
Which £ame  is  why  he  jest  says:  "  How! 

There  *s  sagebrush  in  your  clothes." 

He  knowed  the  smell  —  no  doubt  it  waked 
Him  out  of  some  bright  dream; 

In  some  far  stream  his  thirst  is  slaked  — ■ 
He  sees  the  mountains  gleam; 

He  bears  his  rider  far  and  fast. 
And  real  the  hull  thing  grows 

When  I  come  sorter  driftin*  past 
/      With  sagebrush  in  my  clothes. 

Poor  little  boss !  It 's  tough  to  be 

Away  from  that  fair  land  — ■ 
Away  from  that  wide  prairie  sea 

With  all  its  vistas  grand ; 
I  feel  for  you,  old  hoss,  I  do  — 

It's  hard,  the  way  life  goes; 
I  'd  like  to  travel  back  with  you  — 

Back  where  that  sagebrush  grows ! 

Arthur  Chapman 

TWO-BITS 

Where  the  shimmering  sands  of  the  desert  beat 
In  waves  to  the  foothills'  rugged  line. 

And  cat-claw  and  cactus  and  brown  mesquite 
Elbow  the  cedar  and  mountain  pine ; 


TWO-BITS  39 


Under  the  dip  of  a  wind-swept  hill, 

Like  a  little  gray  hawk  Fort  Whipple  clung; 

The  fort  was  a  pen  of  peeled  pine  logs 
And  forty  troopers  the  army  strong. 

At  the  very  gates  when  the  darkness  fell, 

Prowling  Mohave  and  Yavapai 
Signalled  with  shrill  coyote  yell, 

Or  mocked  the  night  owl's  piercing  cry; 
Till  once  when  the  guard  turned  shuddering 

For  a  trace  in  the  east  of  the  welcome  dawn. 
Spent,  wounded,  a  courier  reeled  to  his  feet;  — 

"  Apaches  —  rising  —  Wingate  —  warni  '* 

"  And  half  the  troop  at  the  Date  Creek  Camp ! " 

The  Captain  muttered :  "  Those  devils  heard ! " 
White-lipped  he  called  for  a  volunteer 

To  ride  "  Two-Bits  "  and  carry  the  word 
"  Alone;  it's  a  game  of  hide  and  seek; 

One  man  may  win  where  ten  would  fail." 
Himself  the  saddle  and  cinches  set 

And  headed  "  Two-Bits  "  for  the  Verde  Trail. 

"  Two-Bits ! "   How  his  still  eyes  woke  to  the 
chase ! 

The  bravest  soul  of  them  all  was  he ! 
Hero  of  many  a  hard-won  race, 

With  a  hundred  scars  for  his  pedigree. 
Wary  of  ambush,  and  keen  of  trail. 

Old  in  wisdom  of  march  and  fray; 
And  the  grizzled  veteran  seemed  to  know 

The  lives  that  hung  on  his  hoofs  that  day. 


40  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

"  A  week !  God  speed  you  and  make  it  less ! 

Ride  by  night  from  the  river  on." 
Caps  were  swung  in  a  silent  cheer, 

A  quick  salute,  and  the  word  was  gone. 
Sunrise,  threading  the  Point  of  Rocks; 

Dusk,  in  the  canyons  dark  and  grim 
Where,  coiled  like  a  rope  flung  down  the  cliffs, 

The  trail  crawls  up  to  the  frowning  rim. 

A  pebble  turned,  a  spark  out-struck 

From  steel-shod  hoofs  on  the  treacherous  flint, 
Ears  strain,  eyes  wait  in  the  rocks  above 

For  the  faintest  whisper,  the  farthest  glint; 
But  shod  with  silence  and  robed  with  night 

They  pass  untracked,  and  mile  by  mile 
The  hills  divide  for  the  flying  feet, 

And  the  stars  lean  low  to  guide  the-while. 

Never  a  plumed  quail  hid  her  nest 

With  the  stealthiest  care  that  a  mother  may, 
As  crouched  at  dawn  in  the  chaparral 

These  two,  whom  a  heart-beat  might  betray. 
So,  hiding  and  riding,  night  by  night; 

Four  days,  and  the  end  of  the  journey  near; 
The  fort  just  hid  in  the  distant  hills  — 

But  hist!  A  whisper  —  a  breath  of  fear! 

They  wheel  and  turn  —  too  late.  Ping!  Ping! 

From  their  very  feet  a  fiery  jet. 
A  lurch,  a  plunge,  and  the  brave  old  horse 

Leaped  out  with  his  broad  breast  torn  and 
wet. 


TWO-BITS  41 


Ping!  Thud!  On  his  neck  the  rider  swayed; 

Ten  thousand  deaths  if  he  reeled  and  fell! 
Behind,  exultant,  the  painted  horde 

Poured  down  like  a  skirmish  line  from  hell. 

Not  yet!  Not  yet!  Those  ringing  hoofs 

Have  scarred  their  triumph  on  many  a  course; 
And  the  desperate,  blood-trailed  chase  swept  on, 

Apache  sinews  'gainst  wounded  horse. 
Hour  crowding  hour  till  the  yells  died  back. 

Till  the  pat  of  the  moccasined  feet  was  gone ; 
And  dumb  to  heeding  of  foe  or  fear 

The  rider  dropped,  —  but  the  horse  kept  on. 

Stiff  and  stumbling  and  spent  and  sore, 

Plodding  the  long  miles  doggedly; 
Till  the  daybreak  bugles  of  Wingate  rang 

And  a  faint  neigh  answered  the  reveille. 
Wide  swung  the  gates  —  a  wounded  horse  — 

Red-dabbled  pouches  and  riding  gear; 
A  shout,  a  hurry,  a  quick-fiung  word  — 

And  "  Boots  and  Saddles  "  rang  sharp  and  clear. 

Like  a  stern  commander  the  old  horse  turned 

As  the  troop  filed  out,  and  straight  to  the  head 
He  guided  them  back  on  that  weary  trail 

Till  he  fell  by  his  fallen  rider  —  dead  — 
But  the  man  and  the  message  saved.  And  he 

Whose  brave  heart  carried  the  double  load. 
With  his  last  trust  kept  and  his  last  race  won  — • 

They  buried  him  there  on  the  Wingate  road. 

Sharlot  M.  Hall 


42  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

EL  HIJO  DEL  MAR 

This  is  a  story  of  long  ago 

Before  Ugarte  of  Mexico 

The  keel  of  his  holy  vessel  laid; 

Before  the  Monterey  Cross  was  made, 

Or  masses  sung  by  Junipero. 

An  old  vaquero  passing  away 

Told  it  beside  Estero  Bay, 

While  his  horse  listened  outside  the  door, 

Lifting  and  shaking  his  hackamore  — 

Listened  as  if  he  had  dreamed  the  lore 
Of  that  brown  Arab  who  swam  ashore 
Through  mighty  waves,  through  sea-fog  gray, 
With  ship's  bells  wailing  that  winter  day; 
Doubtfully  watching  two  strangers  near. 
Gringos  and  Northerners  —  that  was  clear ! 

—  Sadly  the  brown  colt  chafed  at  the  door, 

—  Sadly  old  Juan  looked  forth  once  more. 

Down  his  half-roofed  adobe  old. 
The  Spaniard  whispered  of  ship-wrecked  gold. 
Crazy  Old  Juan  —  they  called  him  there 
But  still  he  talked  of  a  galleon  fair, 
Blown  out  of  her  track  from  Asian  isles. 
Northward  for  many  wearying  miles, 
Rudder  broken  and  canvas  in  rags, 
Hurled  at  last  on  those  outer  crags. 

One  brown  stallion  —  a  wonderful  steed  — 
Won  safe  to  shore  —  and  still  his  breed. 
His  bold,  brown  Arabs  master  the  hills. 


RIDING  SONG  43 


Each  carries  proudly  his  great  white  star,  — 
Loud  whinnied  Juan's  colt  El  Hijo  del  Mar! 

Sometimes  the  ocean  rises  and  fills 
Its  endless  murmurs  with  brooding  ills. 
Sighings  of  women  come  from  the  deep, 
Cryings  of  children  waked  from  sleep. 
Sometimes  the  tides  of  Estero  Bay 
Bring  oaken  timbers  to  light  of  day; 
Once  a  golden  cup  for  blessed  wine, 
Last  filled  for  some  girl  of  ancient  line. 
As  the  storied  galleon  hung  a  breath 
And  slowly  slid  to  her  ocean  death. 

Charles  Howard  Shinn 

RIDING  SONG 

Let  us  ride  together,  — 
Blowing  mane  and  hair, 
Careless  of  the  weather,  ^ 
Miles  ahead  of  care. 
Ring  of  hoof  and  snaffle. 
Swing  of  waist  and  hip, 
Trotting  down  the  twisted  road 
With  the  world  let  slip. 

Let  us  laugh  together,  — 
Merry  as  of  old, 
To  the  creak  of  leather 
And  the  morning  cold. 
Break  into  a  canter ; 
Shout  to  bank  and  tree ; 
Rocking  down  the  waking  trail. 
Steady  hand  and  knee. 


44  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Take  the  life  of  cities ! 
Here 's  the  life  for  me. 
'T  were  a  thousand  pities 
Not  to  gallop  free. 
So  we  '11  ride  together, 
Comrade,  you  and  I, 
Careless  of  the  weather. 
Letting  care  go  by. 

Anonymous 


ORIENT  AND  OCCIDENT 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

O/i,  East  is  East  J  and  West  is  Westy  and  never  the 

twain  shall  meety 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great 

Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  Westy  Border y  nor 

Breed,  nor  Birthy 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  facey  though 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border 

side 
And  he  has  lifted  the  ColonePs  mare  that  is  the 

Colonel's  pride. 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the 

dawn  and  the  day, 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden 

her  far  away. 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a 

troop  of  the  Guides : 
"  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say 

where  Kamal  hides?  " 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mohammed  Khan,  the  son  of 

the  Ressaldar: 
"  If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye 

know  where  his  pickets  are. 
At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai  —  at  dawn  he  is  into 

Bonair, 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place  to 

fare. 


48  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly, 
By  the  favour  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he 

win  to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai. 
But  if  he  be  past  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly 

turn  ye  then^ 
For  the  length  and  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain  is 

sown  with  Kamal's  men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and 

low  lean  thorn  between. 
And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never 

a  man  is  seen." 

The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw 

rough  dun  was  he. 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  hell  and 

the  head  of  a  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid  him 

stay  to  eat  — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not 

long  at  his  meat. 
He  *s  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he 

can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his^father's  mare  in  the  gut  of 

the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with  Kamal 

upon  her  back. 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he 

made  the  pistol  crack. 
He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whis- 
tling ball  went  wide. 

"  Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.  "  Show  now 
if  ye  can  ride ! " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST      49 

It 's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust- 
devils  go, 

The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare 
like  a  barren  doe. 

The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his 
head  above, 

But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars,  as  a 
maiden  plays  with  a  glove. 

There  was  rock  to  the  left  and  rock  to  the  right,  and 
low  lean  thorn  between. 

And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick  tho'  never 
a  man  was  seen. 

They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their 

hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn. 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare 

like  a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course  —  in  a  woeful 

heap  fell  he. 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and 

pulled  the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand  —  small 

room  was  there  to  strive, 
**  'T  was  only  by  favour  of  mine,'*  quoth  he,  "  ye 

rode  so  long  alive: 
There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not 

a  clump  of  tree. 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle 

cocked  on  his  knee. 
If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have  held  it 

low. 
The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  v/ere  feasting  all 

in  a  row. 


50  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have 

held  it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged 

till  she  could  not  fly." 

Lightly  answered  the  ColonePs  son:  "  Do  good  to 

bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  before 

thou  makest  a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry 

my  bones  away. 
Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a 

thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop, 

their  men  on  the  garnered  grain. 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when 

all  the  cattle  are  slain. 
But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair,  —  thy  breth- 
ren wait  to  sup. 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn,  —  howl,  dog, 

and  call  them  up ! 
And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and 

gear  and  stack. 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I  '11  fight  my 

own  way  back ! " 

Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him 

upon  his  feet. 
"  No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "  when  wolf 

and  grey  wolf  meet. 
May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or 

breath ; 
What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at 

the  dawn  with  Death?  " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST      51 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:  "  I  hold  by  the 
blood  of  my  clan : 

Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift  —  by  God, 
she  has  carried  a  man !" 

The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuz- 
zled against  his  breast; 

"  We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kama!  then,  "  but 
she  loveth  the  younger  best. 

So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise- 
studded  rein. 

My  'broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver 
stirrups  twain." 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew,  and  held  it  muzzle- 
end, 

"  Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he ;  *'  "Will 
ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend?  " 

"  A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "  a  limb 
for  the  risk  of  a  limb. 

Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I  '11  send  my  son 
to  him!" 

With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped 
from  a  mountain-crest  — • 

He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and  he  looked 
like  a  lance  in  rest. 

"  Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "  who 

leads  a  troop  of  the  Guides, 
And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  on. 

shoulder  rides. 
Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and  board 

and  bed, 
Thy  life  is  his  —  thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy 

head. 


52  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

So,  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all 

her  foes  are  thine, 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the 

peace  of  the  Border-line. 
And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy 

way  to  power  — 
Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I  am 

hanged  in  Peshawur." 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and 

there  they  found  no  fault. 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood 

on  leavened  bread  and  salt: 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood 

on  fire  and  fresh-cut  sod. 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and 

the  Wondrous  Names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and  Kamal's 

boy  the  dim. 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where 

there  went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard,  full 

twenty  swords  flew  clear  — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the 

blood  of  the  mountaineer. 
"Ha'  done!  ha'  done!"  said  the  Colonel's  son. 

"  Put  up  the  steel  at  your  sides! 
Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief  —  to- 
night 't  is  a  man  of  the  Guides ! " 

Ohy  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the 

twain  shall  meet. 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great 

Judgment  Seat; 


THE  RIDING  CAMEL  53 

But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West^  Border,  nor 

Breed  J  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  though 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Rudyard  Kipling 

THE  RIDING  CAMEL 

I  was  Junda's  riding  camel.  I  went  in  front  of  the 

train. 
I  was  hung  with  shells  of  the  Orient  from  saddle 

and  cinch  and  rein. 
I  was  sour  as  a  snake  to  handle  and  rough  as  a  rock 

to  ride, 
But  I  could  keep  up  with  the  west  wind,  and  my 

pace  was  Jimda's  pride. 

I  was  Junda's  riding  camel.  When  first  we  left  our 

land 
Camels  were  rare  on  the  Queensland  tracks  as 

ropes  made  out  of  the  sand ; 
But   slowly   we  conquered  a  kingdom  till  down 

through  the  dust  and  heat 
Not  a  road  from  the  Gulf  to  the  Border  but  carried 

the  print  of  our  feet. 

And  I  was  the  riding  camel.  I  carried  him  —  Jimda 

Khan  — 
The  dark-skinned  Afghan  devil  made  in  the  mould 

of  a  man ! 
I  gave  no  service  to  others,  yellow,  or  white,  or 

brown, 
But  Jimda  Khan  was  my  master ;  I  knelt  when  he 

"  Hooshed!"  me  down. 


54  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

When  the  gloom  on  his  forehead  gathered,  when  he 

fingered  the  blade  at  his  belt, 
The  men  who  handled  the  nose-strings  knelt  low  as 

the  camels  knelt; 
For  each  of  them  —  beast  and  driver  —  from  Koot 

to  the  camel-foal, 
Knew  that  the  man  who  led  them  owned  them  body 

and  soul. 


Northward  I  carried  my  master.  The  creek  by  the 

road  was  dry; 
The  smi  Uke  a  burning  wagon-wheel  rolled  down 

the  western  sky; 
The  dust  was  white  on  the  saltbush,  the  ruts  were 

deep  in  the  road, 
And  the  camel  behind  me  grunted  at  every  lurch  of 

his  load. 


A  dust-whirl  rose  in  the  bushes  and  circled  into  the 
sky. 

The  shells  on  my  harness  rattled  as  its  burning 
breath  went  by. 

And  out  of  the  endless  distance,  clear-cut  on  the 
world's  edge,  lone. 

Like  a  silver  sail  on  the  ocean  the  roof  of  a  home- 
stead shone. 


The  white  man  stood  at  my  shoulder,  sunburnt, 

lissome  and  straight; 
In  the  deep  of  his  eyes  was  anger  to  match  with  the 

Afghan's  hate. 


THE  RIDING  CAMEL  55 

I  know  no  word  of  the  quarrel,  the  *'  Hoosh-tal" 

came  and  I  knelt; 
And  Junda  sprang  from  my  saddle,  and  the  knife 

leapt  out  of  his  belt. 

There  was  a  cry  in  the  sunset,  an  echo  that  rang  at 
the  ford ; 

Then  silence  fell  on  the  roadway  till  a  scared  bull- 
camel  roared. 

My  master  turned  and  mounted;  I  felt  the  sting  of 
his  goad, 

And  we  swept  away  through  the  saltbush ;  and  the 
rest  stood  still  on  the  road. 


The  night  came  up  from  the  river,  darksome  and 
deep  and  drear. 

Swift  were  my  feet  on  the  sandhill,  but  swifter  fol- 
lowed his  fear. 

When  the  stars  were  dim  in  the  daylight  and  the 
moon  on  the  mulga,  low, 

A  hundred  miles  of  desert  lay  between  the  blade 
and  the  blow. 


We  were  far  from  the  fetter  of  fences  and  far  from 

the  dwellings  of  men. 
Yet  for  less  than  an  hour  he  rested,  then  mounted 

and  rode  again. 
I  was  sore  and  weary  and  thirsty  when  out  of  the 

blaze  of  noon, 
We  camped  in  the  shade  of  a  wilga  clump  and  drank 

at  a  long  lagoon. 


SONGS  OF  HORSES 


Ah !  Never  was  life-blood  taken  of  white,  or  yellow, 

or  brown, 
But  the  keen-eyed  men  in  the  helmets  have  ridden 

the  taker  down! 
Never  a  trail  on  the  sandhill  of  camel,  or  horse,  or 

shoe, 
Crossed  by  a  hundred  others  but  the  trackers  have 

tracked  it  through! 

Sore  of  the  saddle  and  weary,  Junda,  the  killer, 

slept ; 
But  I,  I  watched  from  the  bushes  while  the  armed 

avenger  crept. 
Sharp  came  the  call  in  the  English  tongue,  and  my 

master  sprang  from  sleep. 
Hand  to  the  hilt  of  his  Khyber  knife,  crouched  for 

his  one  swift  leap. 


Brave  are  these  outpost  English,  but  simple  as  chil- 
dren be ; 

The  pistol-barrel  that  held  his  life  hung  loose  at  the 
trooper's  knee. 

There  was  a  flash  in  the  simlight,  the  gleam  of  a 
long,  blue  blade, 

A  cry  in  the  noontide  stillness,  a  corpse  on  the  sand- 
hill laid. 


I  was  his  riding  camel;  but  deep  in  my  heart  there 

stirred 
Something  of  lust  and  anger  I  could  not  name  in  a 

word. 


MULEYKEH  57 

When  he  came  to  me  swift  and  sudden,  the  blood- 
red  knife  in  his  belt, 

I  could  not  kneel  at  his  bidding  as  I  and  my  sires 
had  knelt. 

Wrath  at  his  long-time  goading,  fear  of  his  cruel  hand 

Made  me  a  raging  devil  that  heard  no  man's  com- 
mand. 

And  when  he  struck  at  my  nostrils,  mad  with  his 
human  fear, 

I  clenched  my  teeth  in  his  shoulder  and  climg  till 
the  blood  ran  clear. 

I  knelt  with  my  weight  and  crushed  him.  He  died, 

and  at  Allah's  Gate 
The  soul  of  him  sobs  and  trembles  where  the  grim 

Black  Camels  wait. 
Could  I  do  else,  my  brothers,  I  who  remembered 

then 
The  moan  of  the  laden  pack-beasts  and  the  mutter 

of  Jimda's  men? 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 

MULEYKEH 

If  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  Hoseyn,  he  cried 
"A  churl's!" 

Or  haply  "  God  help  the  man  who  has  neither  salt 
nor  bread!" 

—  "  Nay,"  would  a  friend  exclaim,  "  he  needs  nor 
pity  nor  scorn 

More  than  who  spends  small  thought  on  the  shore- 
sand,  picking  pearls. 


58  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

—  Holds  but  in  light  esteem  the  seed-sort,  bears 

instead 
On  his  breast  a  moon-like  prize,  some  orb  which 

of  night  makes  morn. 

**  What  if  no  flocks  and  herds  enrich  the  son  of 

Sinan? 
They  went  when  his  tribe  was  mulct,  ten  thousand 

camels  the  due. 
Blood-value  paid  perforce  for  a  murder  done  of  old. 

*  God  gave  them,  let  them  go !  But  never  since  time 

began, 
Muleykeh,  peerless  mare,  owned  master  the  match 

of  you, 
And  you  are  my  prize,  my  Pearl:  I  laugh  at  men's 

land  and  gold !  * 

"  So  in  the  pride  of  his  soul  laughs  Hoseyn  —  and 

right,  I  say. 
Do  the  ten  steeds  rim  a  race  of  glory?  Outstripping 

all. 
Ever  Muleykeh  stands  first  steed  at  the  victor's 

staff. 
Who  started,  the  owner's  hope,  gets  shamed  and 

named,  that  day. 

*  Silence,'  or,  last  but  one,  is  *  The  Cuffed,'  as  we 

used  to  call 
Whom  the  paddock's  lord  thrusts  forth.  Right, 
Hoseyn,  I  say,  to  laugh ! " 

"  Boasts  he  Muleykeh  the  Pearl? "  the  stranger 

replies:  *'  Be  sure 
On  him  I  waste  nor  scorn  nor  pity,  but  lavish  both 


MULEYKEH  59 


On  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheyban,  who  withers  away  in 

heart 
For  envy  of  Hoseyn's  luck.  Such  sickness  admits 

no  cure. 
A  certain  poet  has  sung,  and  sealed  the  same  with 

an  oath, 
*  For  the  vulgar  —  flocks  and  herds !  The  Pearl  is  a 

prize  apart.* " 

Lo,  Duhl   the  son  of   Sheyban  comes  riding   to 

Hoseyn's  tent. 
And    casts    his    saddle    down,    and    enters    and 

"  Peace!"  bids  he. 
"  You  are  poor,  I  know  the  cause :  my  plenty  shall 

mend  the  wrong. 
'T  is  said  of  your  Pearl  —  the  price  of  a  hundred 

camels  spent 
In  her  purchase  were  scarce  ill  paid :  such  prudence 

is  far  from  me 
Who   proffer    a    thousand.    Speak!   Long  parley 

may  last  too  long." 

Said  Hoseyn:  "  You  feed  yoimg  beasts  a  many,  of 

famous  breed. 
Slit-eared,    unblemished,    fat,    true    offspring    of 

Muzennem: 
There  stumbles  no  weak-eyed  she  in  the  line  as  it 

climbs  the  hill. 
But  I  love  Muleykeh*s  face :  her  forefront  whitens 

indeed 
Like  a  yellowish  wave's  cream-crest.  Your  camels 

—  go  gaze  on  them ! 
Her  fetlock  is  foam-splashed  too.   Myself  am  the 

richer  still." 


6o  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

A  year  goes  by:  lo,  back  to  tent  again  rides  Duhl. 

"  You  are  open-hearted,  ay  —  moist-handed,  a 
very  prince. 

Why  should  I  speak  of  sale?  Be  the  mare  your  sim- 
ple gift! 

My  son  is  pined  to  death  for  her  beauty:  my  wife 
prompts  '  Fool, 

Beg  for  his  sake  the  Pearl !  Be  God  the  rewarder, 
since 

God  pays  debts  seven  for  one:  who  squanders  on 
Him  shows  thrift.' " 

Said  Hoseyn,  "  God  gives  each  man  one  life,  like  a 
lamp,  then  gives 

That  lamp  due  measure  of  oil:  lamp  lighted  — 
hold  high,  wave  wide 

Its  comfort  for  others  to  share!  once  quench  it, 
what  help  is  left? 

The  oil  of  your  lamp  is  your  son:  I  shine  while 
Muleykeh  lives. 

Would  I  beg  your  son  to  cheer  my  dark  if  Muleykeh 
died? 

It  is  life  against  life :  what  good  avails  to  the  life- 
bereft?  " 

Another  year,  and— hist!  What  craft  is  it  Duhl 

designs? 
He  alights  not  at  the  door  of  the  tent  as  he  did  last 

time. 
But,  creeping  behind,  he  gropes  his  stealthy  way  by 

the  trench 
Half-round  till  he  finds  the  flap  in  the  folding,  for 

night  combines 


MULEYKEH  6i 

With  the  robber  —  and  such  is  he:  Duhl,  covetous 

up  to  crime, 
Must  wring  from  Hoseyn's  grasp  the  Pearl,  by 

whatever  the  wrench. 

"  He  was  hunger-bitten,  I  heard:  I  tempted  with 

half  my  store. 
And  a  gibe  was  all  my  thanks.  Is  he  generous  like 

Spring  dew? 
Account  the  fault  to  me  who  chaffered  with  such  an 

one! 
He  has  killed,  to  feast  chance  comers,  the  creature 

he  rode :  nay,  more  — 
For  a  couple  of  singing-girls  his  robe  h^s  he  torn  in 

two: 
I  will  beg!   Yet  I  nowise  gained  by  the  tale  of  my 

wife  and  son. 

"  I  swear  by  the  Holy  House,  my  head  will  I  never 
wash 

Till  I  filch  his  Pearl  away.  Fair  dealing  I  tried, 
then  guile. 

And  now  I  resort  to  force.  He  said  we  must  live  or  die : 

Let  him  die,  then,  —  let  me  live !  Be  bold  —  but 
not  too  rash ! 

I  have  found  me  a  peeping-place:  breast,  bury  your 
breathing  while 

I  explore  for  myself!  Now,  breathe!  He  de- 
ceived me  not,  the  spy ! 

"  As  he  said  —  there  lies  in  peace  Hoseyn  —  how 
happy!  Beside 

Stands  tethered  the  Pearl:  thrice  winds  her  head- 
stall about  his  wrist : 


62  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

'T  is  therefore  he  sleeps  so  sound  —  the  moon 

through  the  roof  reveals. 
And,  loose  on  his  left,  stands  too  that  other,  known 

far  and  wide, 
Buheyseh,  her  sister  born:  fleet  is  she  yet  ever 

missed 
The  winning   tail's  fire-flash  a-stream  past   the 

thunderous  heels. 

"  No  less  she  stands  saddled  and  bridled,  this  sec- 
ond, in  case  some  thief 

Should  enter  and  seize  and  fly  with  the  first,  as  I 
mean  to  do. 

What  then?  The  Pearl  is  the  Pearl:  once  mount 
her  we  both  escape.*' 

Through  the  skirt-fold  in  glides  Duhl,  —  so  a  ser- 
pent disturbs  no  leaf 

In  a  bush  as  he  parts  the  twigs  entwining  a  nest: 
clean  through. 

He  is  noiselessly  at  his  work:  as  he  planned,  he 
performs  the  rape. 

He  has  set  the  tent-door  wide,  has  buckled  the 

girth,  has  clipped 
The  headstall  away  from  the  wrist  he  leaves  thrice 

bound  as  before. 
He  springs  on  the  Pearl,  is  launched  on  the  desert 

like  bolt  from  bow. 
Up  starts  our  plundered  man:  from  his  breast 

though  the  heart  be  ripped. 
Yet  his  mind  has  the  mastery:  behold,  in  a  minute 

more, 
He  is  out  and  off  and  away  on  Buheyseh,  whose 

worth  we  know ! 


MUL^YKEH  63 

And  Hoseyn  —  his  blood  turns  flame,  he  has 
learned  long  since  to  ride, 

And  Buheyseh  does  her  part,  —  they  gain  —  they 
are  gaining  fast 

On  the  fugitive  pair,  and  Duhl  has  Ed-Darraj  to 
cross  and  quit. 

And  to  reach  the  ridge  El-Saban,  —  no  safety  till 
that  he  spied ! 

And  Buheyseh  is,  bound  by  bound,  but  a  horse- 
length  off  at  last. 

For  the  Pearl  has  missed  the  tap  of  the  heel,  the 
touch  of  the  bit. 

She  shortens  her  stride,  she  chafes  at  her  rider  the 

strange  and  queer: 
Buheyseh  is  mad  with  hope  —  beat  sister  she  shall 

and  must 
Though  Duhl,  of  the  hand  and  heel  so  clumsy,  she 

has  to  thank. 
She  is  near  now,  nose  by  tail  —  they  are  neck  by 

croup  —  joy !  fear ! 
What   folly   makes   Hoseyn   shout   "  Dog   Duhl, 

Damned  son  of  the  Dust, 
Touch  the  right  ear  and  press  with  your  foot  my 

PearPs  left  flank!" 

And  Duhl  was  wise  at  the  word,  and  Muleykeh  as 
prompt  perceived 

Who  was  urging  redoubled  pace,  and  to  hear  him 
was  to  obey. 

And  a  leap  indeed  gave  she,  and  evanished  for  ever- 
more. 

And  Hoseyn  looked  one  long  last  look  as  who,  all 
bereaved, 


64  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Looks,  fain  to  follow  the  dead  so  far  as  the  living 

may: 
Then  he  turned  Buheyseh's  neck  slow  homeward, 

weeping  sore. 

And,  lo,  in  the  sunrise,  still  sat  Hosejrn  upon  the 
ground 

Weeping:  and  neighbors  came,  the  tribesmen  of 
Benu-Asad 

In  the  vale  of  green  Er-Rass,  and  they  questioned 
him  of  his  grief; 

And  he  told  from  first  to  last  how,  serpent-like, 
Duhl  had  wound 

His  way  to  the  nest,  and  how  Duhl  rode  like  an  ape, 
so  bad ! 

And  how  Buheyseh  did  wonders,  yet  Pearl  re- 
mained with  the  thief. 

And  they  jeered  him,  one  and  all:  "  Poor  Hoseyn  is 
crazed  past  hope  I 

How  else  had  he  wrought  himself  his  ruin,  in  for- 
tune's spite? 

To  have  simply  held  the  tongue  were  a  task  for 
boy  or  girl. 

And  here  were  Muleykeh  again,  the  eyed  like  an 
antelope. 

The  child  of  his  heart  by  day,  the  wife  of  his  breast 
by  night!"  — 

**  And  the  beaten  in  speed ! "  wept  Hoseyn.  "  You 
never  have  loved  my  Pearl!" 

Robert  Browning 


CONSUL  ROMANUS  65 


CONSUL  ROMANUS 

Shod  with  gold, 

And  bitted  with  gold, 
Went  an  Emperor's  steed  in  days  of  old. 
On  gilded  oats  this  Horse  was  fed, 
'Neath  a  golden  canopy  had  his  bed: 
Rome  bent  the  knee  when  he  came  in  sight; 
And  he  Uved  in  a  palace  of  marble  white, 
With  a  hundred  slaves  to  serve  his  need, 
For  he  was  the  Emperor's  chosen  steed, 
The  best  and  fleetest  in  all  the  land, 
And  stroked  and  patted  by  Caesar's  hand; 
And  his  purple  trappings  of  price  imtold, 

Flashed  with  jewels, 

And  flamed  with  gold. 

And  the  crazy  Emperor  laughed,  and  swore, 

**  There  is  not  a  king  that  I  honour  more; 

For  where  shall  I  find,  in  the  Roman  throng, 

A  man  who 's  as  handsome,  as  fine,  as  strong, 

Or,  among  my  parasite,  fawning  ring, 

A  friend  who 's  as  true  as  that  speechless  thing? '' 

And  he  sought  about  till  he  found  a  way. 

Which  gold  and  jewels  could  not  express. 
His  thoughts  to  the  v/hole  wide  world  to  say  — 
If  you  had  n't  heard  it  you'd  never  guess 
Who  made  him  a  consul,  nothing  less  — 
And  the  Horse  was  a  consul  that  self  same  day. 

So,  with  glittering  guards  in  grand  array, 
You  can  see  him  a-far  on  the  Appian  way, 


66  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Blazing  with  diamonds  like  a  star, 
Consul  Romanus ! ! 
S.  P.  Q.  R. 

And  though  patricians  may  turn  and  sneer, 
The  people  laugh  and  the  people  jeer,  — • 
They  laugh  at  the  title  turned  to  scorn, 
They  jeer  to  see  it  so  proudly  borne; 
For  he  looks  so  splendid,  he  steps  so  high. 
As  he  tosses  his  jeweled  head  to  the  sky: 
He  spurns  the  earth  with  such  proud  disdain. 
As  he  rattles  his  priceless  bridle  chain; 
He  is  so  shapely  in  every  Une, 
So  full  of  strength  and  yet  so  fine. 
So  handsome  and  so  debonnaire. 
So  much  a  gentleman  everywhere, 

That  you  never  saw, 

Though  you  've  traveled  far, 
Such  a  noble  Consul 

S.  P.  Q.  R. 

And  when,  to  finish  this  equine  lay. 
The  Emperor  died  (in  a  sudden  way). 
Reeking  with  murders,  so  they  say. 
Mad  as  a  hatter,  fouled  and  stained 
With  every  vice  which  the  world  contained ; 
Yet  he  got  the  tribute  the  world  might  pay 
If  mad  Caligula  lived  to-day : 

"  There  are  many  worse: 

He'd  his  faults,  of  course; 
But  he  fostered  sport,  and  he  loved  a  horse." 

Bertrand  Shadwell 


THE  EARLY  MORNING  REDE  67 

TPIE  KENTUCKY  THOROUGHBRED 

I  love  the  hoss  from  hoof  to  head, 
From  head  to  hoof  and  tail  to  mane; 

I  love  the  hoss,  as  I  have  said, 
From  head  to  hoof  and  back  again. 

I  love  my  God  the  first  of  all. 

Then  Him  that  perished  on  the  Cross; 

And  next  my  wife,  and  then  I  fall 

Down  on  my  knees  and  love  the  hoss.  - 

James  Whitcomh  Riley 

THE  EARLY  MORNING  RIDE 

The  dawn  has  left  a  rosy  Hght 
Where  scintillates  the  frosty  sun, 

Your  coat  is  silken,  soft  and  bright, 
Oh,  gentle  horse,  my  lovely  one. 

A  while  we  thread  through  crowded  fares  — 
With  careful  step  and  ears  erect, 

And  arching  neck,  away  she  bears 

To  streams,  where  flying  clouds  reflect. 

There,  stretched  before  a  mossy  bank, 
Its  dew  of  morning  still  undried ;  — 

I  touch  my  beauty's  shining  flank, 
She  hfts  her  quivering  nostril  wide, 

And,  like  an  arrow  in  the  wind. 

Away,  away,  we  flash  as  one ! 
While  playing,  straining  muscles  bend 

Her  slender  Umbs  to  bear  me  on. 

Dorothea  Gilroy 


68  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


CONROY'S  GAP 

This  was  the  way  of  it,  don't  you  know  — 

Ryan  was  "  wanted  "  for  stealing  sheep, 
And  never  a  trooper,  high  or  low. 

Could  find  him  —  catch  a  weasel  asleep ! 
Till  Trooper  Scott,  from  the  Stockman's  Ford  — 

A  bushman,  too,  as  I  've  heard  them  tell  — 
Chanced  to  find  him  drunk  as  a  lord 

Roimd  at  the  Shadow  of  Death  Hotel. 

D'  you  know  the  place?  It's  a  wayside  inn, 

A  low  grog-shanty  —  a  bushman  trap, 
Hiding  away  in  its  shame  and  sin 

Under  the  shelter  of  Conroy's  Gap  — 
Under  the  shade  of  that  frowning  range, 

The  roughest  crowd  that  ever  drew  breath  — 
Thieves  and  rowdies,  uncouth  and  strange, 

Were  mustered  'round  at  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

r 

The  trooper  knew  that  his  man  would  slide 

Like  a  dingo  pup,  if  he  saw  the  chance ; 
And  with  half  a  start  on  the  mountain  side, 

Ryan  would  lead  him  a  merry  dance. 
Drunk  as  he  was  when  the  trooper  came, 

To  him  that  did  not  matter  a  rap  — 
Drunk  or  sober,  he  was  the  same : 

The  boldest  rider  in  Conroy's  Gap. 

"  I  want  you,  Ryan,"  the  trooper  said, 
*'  And  listen  to  me,  if  you  dare  resist, 

So  help  me  heaven,  I'll  shoot  you  dead!  "  — 
He  snapped  the  steel  on  his  prisoner's  wrist, 


CONROY'S  GAP  69 

And  Ryan,  hearing  the  handcuffs  click, 
Recovered  his  wits  as  they  turned  to  go, 

For  fright  will  sober  a  man  as  quick 
As  all  the  drugs  that  the  doctors  know. 

There  was  a  girl  in  that  rough  bar 

Who  went  by  the  name  of  Kate  Carew. 
Quiet  and  shy  as  the  bush  girls  are, 

But  ready-witted  and  plucky,  too. 
She  loved  this  Ryan,  or  so  they  say, 

And  passing  by,  while  her  eyes  were  dim 
With  tears,  she  said  in  a  careless  way, 

"  The  Swagman's  'round  in  the  stable,  Jim." 

Spoken  too  low  for  the  trooper's  ear. 

Why  should  she  care  if  he  heard  or  not? 
Plenty  of  swagmen  far  and  near, 

And  yet  to  Ryan  it  meant  a  lot.  ' 
That  was  the  name  of  the  grandest  horse 

In  all  the  district  from  east  to  west. 
In  every  show  ring,  on  every  course. 

They  always  counted  the  Swagman  best. 

He  was  a  wonder,  a  raking  bay  — 

One  of  the  grand  old  Snowdon  strain  — 
One  of  the  sort  that  could  race  and  stay 

With  his  mighty  limbs  and  his  length  of  rein. 
Born  and  bred  on  the  mountain  side. 

He  could  race  through  scrub  like  a  kangaroo. 
The  girl  herself  on  his  back  might  ride. 

And  the  Swagman  would  carry  her  safely 
through. 


70  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

He  would  travel  gaily  from  daylight's  flush 

Till  after  the  stars  hung  out  their  lamps  — 
There  was  never  his  Hke  in  the  open  bush, 

And  never  liis  match  in  the  cattle-camps. 
For  faster  horses  might  well  be  found 

On  racing  tracks,  or  a  plain's  extent, 
But  few,  if  any,  on  broken  ground 

Could  see  the  way  that  the  Swagman  went. 

When  this  girl's  father,  old  Jim  Carew, 

Was  droving  out  on  the  Castlereagh 
With  Conroy's  cattle,  a  wire  came  through 

To  say  that  his  wife  could  n't  live  the  day. 
And  he  was  a  hundred  miles  from  home, 

As  flies  the  crow,  with  never  a  track, 
Through  plains  as  pathless  as  ocean's  foam  — • 

He  mounted  straight  on  the  Swagman's  back  - 

He  left  the  camp  by  the  sundown  light. 

And  the  settlers  out  on  the  Marthaguy 
Awoke  and  heard,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  single  horseman  hurrying  by. 
He  crossed  the  Bogan  at  Dandaloo, 

And  many  a  mile  of  the  silent  plain 
That  lonely  rider  behind  him  threw 

Before  they  settled  to  sleep  again. 

He  rode  all  night  and  he  steered  his  course 
By  the  shining  stars  with  a  bushman's  skill. 

And  every  time  that  he  pressed  his  horse 
The  Swagman  answered  him  gamely  still. 

He  neared  his  home  as  the  east  was  bright, 
The  doctor  met  him  outside  the  town : 


CONROY'S  GAP  71 

"  Carew!  How  far  did  you  come  last  night?" 
"  A  hundred  miles  since  the  sxm  went  down." 

And  his  wife  got  'round,  and  an  oath  he  passed, 

So  long  as  he  or  one  of  his  breed 
Could  raise  a  coin,  though  it  took  their  last, 

The  Swagman  never  should  want  a  feed. 
And  Kate  Carew,  when  her  father  died. 

She  kept  the  horse  and  she  kept  him  well: 
The  pride  of  the  district  far  and  wide, 

He  lived  in  style  at  the  bush  hotel. 

Such  was  the  Swagman ;  and  Ryan  knew 

Nothing  about  could  pace  the  crack; 
Little  he  'd  care  for  the  man  in  blue 

If  once  he  got  on  the  Swagman's  back. 
But  how  to  do  it?  A  word  let  fall 

Gave  him  the  hint  as  the  girl  passed  by; 
Nothing  but  "  Swagman  —  stable-wall; 

Go  to  the  stable  and  mind  your  eye." 

He  caught  her  meaning,  and  quickly  turned 

To  the  trooper:  *'  Reckon  you'll  gain  a  stripe 
By  arresting  me,  and  it's  easily  earned; 

Let's  go  to  the  stable  and  get  my  pipe  — 
The  Swagman  has  it."  So  off  they  went. 

And  soon  as  ever  they  turned  their  backs 
The  girl  slipped  down,  on  some  errand  bent 

Behind  the  stable,  and  seized  an  axe. 

The  trooper  stood  at  the  stable  door 

While  Ryan  went  in  quite  cool  and  slow. 

And  then  (the  trick  had  been  played  before) 
The  girl  outside  gave  the  boards  a  blow. 


72  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Three  slabs  fell  out  of  the  stable  wall  — 
'T  was  done  'fore  ever  the  trooper  knew  — 

And  Ryan,  as  soon  as  he  saw  them  fall, 

Mounted  the  Swagman  and  rushed  him  through. 

The  trooper  heard  the  hoof-beats  ring 

In  the  stable  yard,  and  he  slammed  the  gate. 
But  the  Swagman  rose  with  a  mighty  spring 

At  the  fence,  and  the  trooper  fired  too  late, 
As  they  raced  away  and  his  shots  flew  wide  — 

And  Ryan  no  longer  need  care  a  rap, 
For  never  a  horse  that  was  lapped  in  hide 

Could  catch  the  Swagman  in  Conroy's  Gap. 

And  that's  the  story.  You  want  to  know 

If  Ryan  came  back  to  his  Kate  Carew? 
Of  course  he  should  have,  as  stories  go, 

But  the  worst  of  it  is,  this  story's  true; 
And  in  real  Ufe  it's  a  certain  rule, 

Whatever  poets  and  authors  say 
Of  high-toned  robbers  and  all  their  school, 

These  horse-thief  fellows  are  n't  built  that  way. 

Come  back !  Don't  hope  it  —  the  slinking  hound, 

He  sloped  across  to  the  Queensland  side, 
And  sold  the  Swagman  for  fifty  pound. 

And  stole  the  money,  and  more  beside. 
And  took  to  drink,  and  by  some  good  chance 

Was  killed  —  thrown  out  of  a  stolen  trap. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  this  small  romance, 

The  end  of  the  story  of  Conroy's  Gap. 

A.  B.  Paterson 


ALEXANDER  TAMING  BUCEPHALUS  73 


ALEXANDER  TAMING  BUCEPHALUS 

*'  Bring  forth  the  steed!"  It  was  a  level  plain 
Broad  and  unbroken  as  the  mighty  sea, 
When  in  their  prison  caves  the  winds  lie  chained. 
There  Philip  sat,  paviHoned  from  the  sun; 
There,  all  around,  thronged  Macedonia's  hosts, 
Bannered  and  plumed  and  armed  —  a  vast  array. 
There  too  among  an  undistinguished  crowd, 
Distinguished  not  himself  by  pomp,  or  dress, 
Or  any  royal  sign,  save  that  he  wore 
A  god-like  aspect  like  Olympian  Jove, 
And  perfect  grace  and  dignity,  —  a  youth,  — ■ 
A  simple  youth  scarce  sixteen  summers  old, 
With  swift  impatient  step  walked  to  and  fro. 
E'en  from  their  monarch's  throne,  they  turned  to 

view  — 
Those  countless  congregations,  —  that  young  form; 
And  when  he  cried  again,  "  Bring  forth  the  steed ! " 
Like  thunder  rolled  the  multitudinous  shout 
Along  the  heavens,  —  "  Live,  Alexander!'* 

Then  PhiHp  waved  his  sceptre,  —  silence  fell 
O'er  all  the  plain.  —  'T  was  but  a  moment's  pause, 
While  every  gleaming  banner,  helm,  and  spear 
Sunk  down  Uke  ocean  billows,  when  the  breeze 
First  sweeps  along  and  bends  their  silvery  crests. 
Ten  thousand  trumpets  rung  amid  the  hail 
Of  armies,  as  in  victory,  —  "  Live  the  King!" 
And  Philonicus,  the  PharsaHan,  kneeled: 
From  famous  Thessaly  a  horse  he  brought, 
A  matchless  horse.  Vigor  and  beauty  strove 
Like  rival  sculptors  carving  the  same  stone 


74  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

To  win  the  mastery;  and. both  prevailed. 

His  hoofs  were  shod  with  swiftness;  where  he 

ran 
Glided  the  ground  like  water ;  in  his  eye 
Flashed  the  strange  fire  of  spirits  still  untamed, 
As  when  the  desert  owned  him  for  its  lord. 
Mars !  What  a  noble  creature  did  he  seem ! 
Too  noble  for  a  subject  to  bestride, 
Worth  gold  in  talents;  chosen  for  a  prince, 
The  most  renowned  and  generous  on  earth. 

"  Obey  my  son,  Pharsalian!  bring  the  steed!" 
The  Monarch  spoke.  A  signal  to  the  grooms, 
And  on  the  plain  they  led  Bucephalus. 
"  Mount,  vassal,  mount !  Why  pales  thy  cheek  with 

fear? 
Mount  —  ha!  art  slain?  Another!  mount  again!" 
'T  was  all  in  vain.  —  No  hand  could  curb  a  neck 
Clothed  with   such  might  and  grandeur  to  the 

rein: 
No  thong  or  spur  could  make  his  fury  yield.  — 
Now  bounds  he  from  the  earth ;  and  now  he  rears, 
Now  madly  plunges,  strives  to  rush  away. 
Like  that  strong  bird  —  his  fellow,  king  of  air! 

"Quick,  take  him  hence,"  cried  Philip;  "he  is 

wild!" 
"  Stay,  father,  stay!  —  lose  not  this  gallant  steed. 
For  that  base  grooms  cannot  control  his  ire ! 
Give  me  the  bridle!"  Alexander  threw 
His  light   cloak   from   his   shoulders,   and   drew 

nigh. 
The  brave  steed  was  no  courtier:  prince  and  groom 


ALEXANDER  TAMING  BUCEPHALUS     75 

Bore  the  same  mien  to  him.  —  He  started  back, 
But  with  firm  grasp  the  youth  retained  and  turned 
His  fierce  eyes  from  his  shadow  to  the  sun, 
Then  with  that  hand,  in  after  years  which  hurled 
The  bolts  of  war  among  embattled  hosts  — 
Conquered  all  Greece,  and  over  Persia  swayed 
Imperial  command,  —  which  on  Fame's  Temple 
Graved:  "Alexander,  Victor  of  the  World!'*  — 
With  that  same  hand  he  smoothed  the  flowing 

mane. 
Patted  the  glossy  skin  with  soft  caress. 
Soothingly  speaking  in  low  voice  the  while. 
Lightly  he  vaulted  to  his  first  great  strife. 
How  like  a  Centaur  looked  the  youth  and  steed! 
Firmly  the  hero  sat;  his  glowing  cheek 
Flushed  with  the  rare  excitement;  his  high  brow 
Pale  with  a  stern  resolve ;  his  Up  as  smiling 
And  his  glance  as  calm,  as  if,  in  dalUance, 
Instead  of  danger,  with  a  girl  he  played. 
Untutored  to  obey,  how  raves  the  steed! 
Champing  the  bit,  and  tossing  the  white  foam, 
And  struggling  to  get  free,  that  he  might  dart, 
Swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  shivering  bow  — 
The  rein  is  loosened.  *'  Now,  Bucephalus!" 
Away  —  away  I  he  flies;  away  —  away! 
The  multitude  stood  hushed  in  breathless  awe, 
And  gazed  into  the  distance. 

Lo ! a  speck,  — 
A  darksome  speck  on  the  horizon !  'T  is  — 
'T  is  he !  Now  it  enlarges :  nov/  are  seen 
The  horse  and  rider;  now,  with  ordered  pace, 
The  horse  approaches,  and  the  rider  leaps 
Down  to  the  earth  and  bends  his  rapid  pace 


76  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Unto  the  King's  pavilion.  —  The  wild  steed, 
Unled,  uncalled,  is  following  his  subduer. 

Philip  wept  tears  of  joy:  "  My  son,  go  seek 
A  larger  empire ;  for  so  vast  a  soul, 
Too  small  is  Macedonia!" 

Park  Benjamin 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 

(Hurry) 
That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring; 

(Oh !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl; 

And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed: 

(Hurry!) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need; 

(Oh!  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank; 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank; 
Bridles  were  slackened  and  girths  were  burst; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first. 

For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one; 

(Hurry) 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE       77 

They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward 

gone; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone. 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying ! 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din. 
Then  he  dropped;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 

Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn; 

(Silence !) 
No  answer  came ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  grey  morn. 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide ; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day. 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest. 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 
The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check; 
Ke  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck:    ' 
"  O  steed  —  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying!" 

Caroline  Norton 


78  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

EL-AZREK 

My  only  sequin  served  to  bribe 
A  cunning  mother  of  the  tribe 
To  Mariam's  mind  my  plan  to  bring. 
A  feather  of  the  wild  dove's  wing, 
A  lock  of  raven  gloss  and  stain 
Sheared  from  El-Azrek's  flowing  mane, 
And  that  pale  flower  whose  fragrant  cup 
Is  closed  until  the  moon  comes  up,  — 
But  then  a  tenderer  beauty  holds 
Than  any  flower  the  sun  unfolds,  — 
Declared  my  purpose.  Her  reply 
Let  loose  the  winds  of  ecstasy: 
Two  roses  and  the  moonlight  flower 
Told  the  acceptance,  and  the  hour,  — 
Two  daily  suns  to  waste  their  glow. 
And  then,  at  moonrise,  bUss  —  or  woe ! 

El-Azrek  now,  on  whom  alone 
The  burden  of  our  fate  was  thrown, 
Claimed  from  my  hands  a  double  meed 
Of  careful  training  for  the  deed. 
I  gave  him  of  my  choicest  store,  — ■ 
No  guest  was  ever  honored  more. 
With  flesh  of  kid,  with  whitest  bread 
And  dates  of  Egypt  was  he  fed; 
The  camel's  heavy  udders  gave 
Their  frothy  juice  his  thirst  to  lave : 
A  charger  groomed  with  better  care, 
The  Sultan  never  rode  to  prayer. 

My  burning  hope,  my  torturing  fear, 
I  breathed  in  his  sagacious  ear; 


EL-AZREK  79 


Caressed  him  as  a  brother  might, 
Implored  his  utmost  speed  in  flight, 
Hung  on  his  neck  with  many  a  vow. 
And  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  brow. 
His  large  and  lustrous  eyeball  sent 
A  look  which  made  me  confident, 
As  if  in  me  some  doubt  he  spied, 
And  met  it  with  a  human  pride. 
"  Enough,  I  trust  thee.    'T  is  the  hour, 
And  I  have  need  of  all  thy  power. 
Without  a  wing,  God  gives  thee  wings, 
And  fortune  to  thy  forelock  clings." 

The  yellow  moon  was  rising  large 
Above  the  desert's  dusky  marge, 
And  save  the  jackal's  whining  moan, 
And  distant  camel's  gurgling  groan. 
And  the  lamenting  monotone 
Of  winds  that  breathe  their  vain  desire 
And  on  the  lonely  sands  expire, 
A  silent  charm,  a  breathless  spell. 
Waited  with  me  beside  the  well. 
She  is  not  there,  —  not  yet,  —  but  soon 
A  white  robe  glimmers  in  the  moon. 
Her  little  footsteps  make  no  sound 
On  the  soft  sand ;  and  with  a  bound. 
Where  terror,  doubt,  and  love  unite 
To  blind  her  heart  to  all  but  flight 
Trembling,  and  panting,  and  oppressed, 
She  threw  herself  upon  my  breast. 
By  Allah !  Hke  a  bath  of  flame 
The  seething  blood  tumultuous  came 
From  life's  hot  center  as  I  drew 
Her  mouth  to  mine :  our  spirits  grew 


8o  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Together  in  one  long,  long  kiss,  — 

One  swooning,  speechless  pulse  of  bliss, 

That  throbbing  from  the  hearths  core,  met 

In  the  united  lips.  Oh,  yet 

The  eternal  sweetness  of  that  draught 

Renews  the  thirst  with  which  I  quaffed 

Love's  virgin  vintage :  starry  fire 

Leapt  from  the  twilights  of  desire, 

And  in  the  golden  dawn  of  dreams 

The  space  grew  warm  with  radiant  beams, 

Which  from  that  kiss  streamed  o'er  a  sea 

Of  rapture,  in  whose  bosom  we 

Sank  down  and  sank  eternally. 

Now  nerve  thy  limbs,  El-Azrek!  Fling 
Thy  head  aloft,  and  like  a  wing 
Spread  on  the  wind  thy  cloudly  mane  I 
The  hunt  is  on,  their  stallions  strain 
Their  urgent  shoulders  close  behind, 
And  the  wide  nostril  drinks  the  wind. 
But  thou  art,  too,  of  Nedjid's  breed, 
My  brother !  and  the  falcon's  speed 
Aslant  the  storm's  advancing  Une 
Would  laggard  be  if  matched  with  thine. 
Still  leaping  forward,  whistHng  through 
The  moonlight-laden  air  v/e  flew; 
And  from  the  distance  threateningly, 
Came  the  pursuer's  eager  cry. 

Still  forward,  forward,  stretched  our  flight 
Through  the  long  hours  of  middle  night; 
One  after  one  the  followers  lagg'd, 
And  even  my  faithful  Azrek  flagged 


NO  REST  FOR  THE  HORSE  8i 

Beneath  his  double  burden,  till 

The  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  fill 

The  East,  and  freshening  in  the  race, 

Their  goaded  horses  gained  apace. 

I  drew  my  dagger,  cut  the  girth. 

Tumbled  my  saddle  to  the  earth, 

And  clasped  with  desperate  energies 

My  stallion's  side,  with  iron  knees; 

While  Mariam,  clinging  to  my  breast, 

The  closer  for  that  peril  pressed. 

They  come !  They  come !  Their  shouts  we  hear, 

Now  faint  and  far,  now  fierce  and  near. 

O  brave  El-Azrek!  on  the  track 

Let  not  one  fainting  sinew  slack, 

Or  know  thine  agony  of  flight 

Endured  in  vain !  The  purple  light 

Of  breaking  morn  has  come  at  last. 

O  joy!  the  thirty  leagues  are  past; 

And,  gleaming  in  the  sunrise,  see, 

The  white  tents  of  the  Aneyzee ! 

The  warriors  of  the  waste,  the  foes 

Of  Shekh  Abdallah's  tribe,  are  those 

Whose  shelter  and  support  I  claim, 

Which  they  bestov/  in  Allah's  name; 

While,  wheeling  back,  the  bafiled  few 

No  longer  venture  to  pursue. 

Bayard  Taylor 

NO  REST  FOR  THE  HORSE 

There's  a  union  for  teamster  and  waiter. 
There's  a  union  for  cabman  and  cook. 

There's  a  union  for  hobo  and  preacher, 
And  one  for  detective  and  crook. 


82  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

There 's  a  union  for  blacksmith  and  painter, 

There  is  one  for  the  printer,  of  course; 
But  where  would  you  go  in  this  realm  of  woe 

To  discover  a  guild  for  the  horse? 
He  can't  make  a  murmur  in  protest. 

Though  they  strain  him  both  up  and  down 
hill. 
Or  force  him  to  work  twenty  hours 

At  the  whim  of  some  drunken  brute's  will. 
Look  back  at  our  struggle  for  freedom  — 

Trace  our  present  day's  strength  to  its  source, 
And  you'll  find  that  man's  pathway  to  glory 

Is  strewn  with  the  bones  of  the  horse. 
The  mule  is  a  fool  under  fire; 

The  horse,  although  frightened,  stands  true. 
And  he  'd  charge  into  hell  v/ithout  flinching 

'T  wixt  the  knees  of  the  trooper  he  knew. 
When  the  troopers  grow  old  they  are  pensioned, 

Or  a  berth  or  a  home  for  them  found; 
When  horse  is  worn  out  they  condemn  him 

And  sell  him  for  nothing  a  pound. 
Just  think,  the  old  pet  of  some  trooper, 

Once  curried  and  rubbed  twice  a  day, 
Now  drags  some  damned  ragpicker's  wagon, 

With  curses  and  blows  for  his  pay. 
I  once  knew  a  grand  king  of  racers. 

The  best  of  a  cup- winning  strain; 
They  ruined  his  knees  on  a  hurdle. 

For  his  rider's  hat  covered  no  brain. 
I  met  him  again,  four  years  later. 

On  his  side  at  the  foot  of  a  hill. 
With  two  savages  kicking  his  ribs. 

And  doing  their  work  with  a  will. 


THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  STEED     83 

I  stroked  the  once  velvety  muzzle, 

I  murmured  the  old  name  again. 
He  once  filled  my  purse  with  gold  dollars; 

And  this  day  I  bought  him  for  ten. 
His  present  address  is  "  Sweet  Pastures,'* 

He  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  eat; 
Or  loaf  in  the  shade  on  the  green,  velvet 
grass 

And  dream  of  the  horses  he  beat. 
Now,  a  dog  —  well,  a  dog  has  a  Umit; 

After  standing  for  all  that's  his  due, 
He'll  pack  up  his  duds  some  dark  evening 

And  shine  out  for  scenes  which  are  new. 
But  a  horse,  once  he's  used  to  his  leather, 

Is  much  Uke  the  old-fashioned  wife: 
He  may  not  be  proud  of  his  bargain. 

But  still  he'll  be  faithful  through  hfe. 
And  I  envy  the  merciful  teamster 

Who  can  stand  at  the  bar  and  say: 
"Kind  Lord,  with  the  justice  I  dealt  my  horse. 

Judge  Thou  my  soul  to-day." 

Anonymous 

THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  STEED 

My  beautiful,  my  beautiful,  that  standest  meekly 

by, 
With  thy  proudly  arched  and  glossy  neck,  and  dark 

and  fiery  eye ! 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now  with  all  thy  winged 

speed, 
I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again  —  thou'rt  sold,  my 

Arab  steed! 


84  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof  —  snuff  not  the 
breezy  wind ; 

The  farther  that  thou  fiiest  now,  so  far  am  I  be- 
hind! 

The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle-rein,  thy  master  ha-^h 
his  gold  — 

Fleet-limbed  and  beautiful,  farewell  —  thou'rt 
sold,  my  steed,  thou'rt  sold! 

Farewell !  those  free,  untired  limbs  full  many  a  mile 

must  roam. 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  clime  that  clouds  the 

stranger's  home; 
Some  other  hand,  less  kind,  must  now  thy  corn 

and  bed  prepare; 
The  silk  mane  that  I  braided  once  must  be  another's 

care. 


The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again  —  but  never- 
more with  thee 

Shall  I  gallop  o'er  the  desert  paths  where  we  were 
wont  to  be; 

Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o'er  the 
sandy  plain 

Some  other  steed  with  slower  pace  shall  bear  me 
home  again. 

Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold  that  dark  eye  glancing 

bright  — 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so  firm  and 

Hght; 


THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  STEED     85 

And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arms  to  check  or 

cheer  thy  speed, 
Then  must  I  startling  wake  to  feel  thou*rt  sold,  my 

Arab  steed! 


Ah,  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me,  some  cruel  hand 
may  chide. 

Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves,  along  thy 
panting  side, 

And  the  rich  blood  that's  in  thee  swells  in  thy  in- 
dignant pain, 

Till  careless  eyes  that  on  thee  gaze  may  count  each 
starting  vein. 

Will  they  ill-use  thee?  if  I  thought  —  but  no,  it  can- 
not be; 

Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curbed ;  so  gentle,  yet  so 
free. 

And  yet  if  haply  when  thou'rt  gone  this  lonely  heart 
should  yearn, 

Can  the  hand  that  casts  thee  from  it  now  command 
thee  to  return? 


"  Return ! "  alas,  my  Arab  steed !  what  will  thy  mas- 
ter do. 

When  thou  that  wast  his  all  of  joy  hast  vanished 
from  his  view? 

When  the  dim  distance  greets  mine  eyes,  and 
through  the  gathering  tears 

Thy  bright  form  for  a  moment  like  the  false  mirage 
appears? 


86  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Slow  and  unmounted  will  I  roam  with  wearied  foot 

alone, 
Where,  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound,  thou  oft 

hast  borne  me  on. 
And  sitting  dov/n  by  the  green  well,  lUl  pause,  and 

sadly  think, 
"  'T  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck  when  last  I 

saw  him  drink." 

When  last  I  saw  thee  drink?  —  Away!  the  fevered 

dream  is  o'er! 
I  could  not  live  a  day  and  know  that  we  should  meet 

no  more; 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful  —  for  hunger's 

power  is  strong  — 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful  —  but  I  have  loved 

too  long  — 

Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up?  Who  said  that 

thou  wert  sold? 
'T  is  false,  't  is  false,  my  Arab  steed !  I  fling  them 

back  their  gold ! 
Thus  —  thus  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour  the 

distant  plains ! 
Away !  who  overtakes  us  now  shall  claim  thee  for  his 

pains. 

Caroline  Norton 


BAVlfCA 

The  King  looked  on  him  kindly,  as  on  a  vassal  true : 
Then  to  the  King  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  reverence 
due: 


BAVIECA  87 


**  O  King,  the  thing  is  shameful,  that  any  man  be- 
side 

The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself  should  Bavieca 
ride: 

"  For    neither    Spain    nor   Araby   could   another 

charger  bring 
So  good  as  he,  and  certes,  the  best  befits  my  king. 
But  that  you  may  behold  him,  and  know  him  to  the 

core, 
I'll  make  him  go  as  he  was  wont  when  his  nostrils 

smelt  the  Moor." 

With  that,  the  Cid,  clad  as  he  was  in  mantle  furred 

and  wide, 
On  Bavieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  his  side; 
And  up  and  down,  and  'round  and  'round,  so  fierce 

was  his  career. 
Streamed  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind  Ruy  Diaz' 

minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  praised  them,  —  they  lauded 

man  and  horse. 
As  matched  well,  and  rivalless  for  gallantry  and 

force; 
Ne'er  had  they  looked  on  horseman  might  to  this 

knight  come  near. 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

Thus,  to  and  fro  a-rushing,  the  fierce  and  furious 

steed. 
He  snapped  in  twain  his  hither  rein;  —  "  God  pity 

now  the  Cid ! 


88  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

God  pity  Diaz!"  cried  the  lords;  —  but  when  they 

looked  again, 
They  saw  Ruy  Diaz  ruling  him  with  the  fragment  of 

his  rein; 
They  saw  him  proudly  ruling,  with  gesture  firm  and 

calm, 
Like  a  true  lord  commanding,  and  obeyed  as  by  a 

lamb. 


And  so  he  led  him  foaming  and  panting  to  the 

King; — 
But  "  No!"  said  Don  Alphonso,  *'  It  were  a  shame- 
ful thing 
That  peerless  Bavieca  should  ever  be  bestrid 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar,  —  mount,  mount  again, 
myCid!" 

John  Gibson  Lockhart 
(Translated  from  the  Spanish) 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  HORSE 

Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength?  hast  thou 
clothed  his  neck  with  thunder? 

Canst  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper? 
the  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  terrible. 

He  paweth  in  the  valley,  and  rejoiceth  in  his 
strength:  he  goeth  on  to  meet  the  armed  men. 

He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  affrighted ;  neither 
turneth  he  back  from  the  sword. 

The  quiver  rattleth  against  him,  the  glittering 
spear  and  the  shield. 

He  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and 


A  HORSE'S  EPITAPH  89 

rage :  neither  believeth  he  that  it  is  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet. 

He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha,  ha;  and  he 
smelleth  the  battle  afar  off,  the  thunder  of  the 
captains,  and  the  shouting. 

The  Book  of  Job 

A  PICTURE 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life 
In  limning  out  a  well-proportioned  steed, 

His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed; 

So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one  ' 

In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  pace,  and  bone. 

Round-hoof'd,  short-jointed,  fetlocks  shag  and  long. 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostril 
wide. 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs  and  passing 
strong. 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad   buttock,   tender 
hide: 
Look,  what  a  horse  should  have  he  did  not  lack, 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back.       '? 

Shakespeare 


A  HORSE'S  EPITAPH 

Soft  lies  the  turf  on  those  who  find  their  rest 
Beneath  our  common  mother's  ample  breast, 
Unstained  by  meanness,  avarice,  or  pride ; 
They  never  cheated,  and  they  never  Ued. 


90  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

They  ne'er  intrigued  a  rival  to  dispose; 
They  ran,  but  never  betted  on  the  race; 
Content  with  harmless  sport  and  simple  food, 
Boundless  in  faith  and  love  and  gratitude; 
Happy  the  man,  if  there  be  any  such,  — 
Of  whom  his  epitaph  can  say  as  much. 

Lord  Sherbrooke 


FROM  THE  WRECK 

"  Turn  out,  boys"  —  "  What's  up  with  our  super 
to-night? 
The  man's  mad  —  Two  hours  to  daybreak  I'd 
swear  — 
Stark  mad  —  why,  there  is  n't  a  glimmer  of  light." 
"  Take  Bolingbroke,  Alec,  give  Jack  the  young 
^        mare ; 

Look  sharp!   A  large  vessel  lies  jamm'd  on  the 
reef. 
And  many  on  board  still,  and  some  wash'd  on 
shore. 
Ride  straight  with  the  news  —  they  may  send  some 
relief 
From  the  township;  and  we  — we  can  do  little 
more. 
You,   Alec,   you   know   the   near   cuts;   you   can 
cross 
*The  Sugarloaf  ford  with  a  scramble,  I  think; 
Don't   spare   the   blood   filly,  nor   yet  the  black 
horse ; 
Should  the  wind  rise,  God  help  them!  the  ship 
w^ill  soon  sink. 
Old  Peter's  away  down  the  paddock,  to  drive 


FROM  THE  WRECK  91 

The  nags  to  the  stockyard  as  fast  as  he  can  — 
A  life  and  death  matter;  so,  lads,  look  alive." 
Half-dressed,  in  the  dark  to  the  stockyard  we  ran. 

There  was  bridling  with  hurry,  and  saddHng  with 
haste, 
Confusion  and  cursing  for  lack  of  a  moon: 
"  Be  quick  with  these  buckles,  we've  no  time  to 
waste"; 
"  Mind  the  mare,  she  can  use  her  hind  legs  to 
some  tune." 
"  Make  sure  of  the  crossing-place;  strike  the  old 
track. 
They've  fenced  off  the  new  one;  look  out  for  the 
holes 
On  the  wombat  hills."  "  Down  with  the  slip  rails; 
stand  back." 
"  And  ride,  boys,  the  pair  of  you,  ride  for  your 
souls." 

In  the  low  branches  heavily  laden  with  dew, 
In  the  long  grasses  spoiUng  with  deadwood  that 
day. 
Where  the  blackwood,  the  box,  and  bastard  oak 
grew. 
Between  the  tall  gum  trees  we  gallop'd  away  — 
We  crash'd  through  a  brush  fence,  we  splash'd 
through  a  swamp  — 
We  steered  for  the  north  near   "  The  Eagle- 
hawk's  Nest"  — 
We  bore  to  the  left,  just  beyond  "  The  Red  Camp." 
And  round  the  black  tea-tree  belt  wheel'd  to  the 
west  — 


92  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

We  crossM  a  low  range  sickly-scented  with  musk 
From  the  wattle-tree  blossom  —  we  skirted  a 
marsh  — 
Then  the  dawn  faintly  dappled  with  orange  the 
dusk, 
And  peal'd  overhead  the  jay's  laughter  note 
harsh, 
And  shot  the  first  sunstreak  behind  us,  and  soon 

The  dim,  dewy  uplands  were  dreamy  v/ith  light, 
And  full  on  our  left  flash'd  "  The  Reedy  Lagoon," 
And  sharply  "  The  Sugarloaf "  rear'd  on  our 
right. 
A  smother'd  curse  broke  through  the  bushman's 
brown  beard. 
He  turn'd  in  his  saddle,  his  brick-color'd  cheek 
Flush'd  feebly  with  sun-dawn,  said,  "  Just  what  I 
fear'd; 
Last  fortnight's    late  rainfall  has  flooded  the 
creek." 

Black  Bolingbroke  snorted,  and  stood  on  the  brink 
One  instant,  then  deep  in  the  dark,  sluggish 
swirl 
Plunged  headlong.  I  saw  the  horse  suddenly  sink, 
Till  round  the  man's  armpits  the  waves  seem'd  to 
curl. 
We  follow'd,  —  one  cold  shock,  and  deeper  we  sank 
Than  they  did,  and  twice  tried  the  landing  in 
vain; 
The  third  struggle  won  it,  straight  up  the  steep 
bank 
We  stagger'd,  then  out  on  the  skirts  of  the 
plain. 


FROM  THE  WRECK  93 

The  stock-rider,  Alec,  at  starting  had  got 

The  lead,  and  had  kept  it  throughout;  't  was  his 
boast. 
That  through  thickest  of  scrub  he  could  steer  Uke  a 
shot, 
And  the  black  horse  was  counted  the  best  on  the 
coast. 
The  mare  had  been  awkward  enough  in  the  dark. 
She  was  eager  and  headstrong,  and  barely  half 
broke ; 
She  had  had  me  too  close  to  a  big  stringy-bark. 
And  had  made  a  near  thing  of  a  crooked  she-oak ; 

But  now  on  the  open,  lit  up  by  the  morn, 

She  flung  the  white  foamfiakes  from  nostril  to 
neck. 
And  chased  him  —  I  hatless,  with  shirtsleeves  all 
torn 
(For  he  may  ride  ragged   who   rides  from  a 
wreck)  — 
And  faster  and  faster  across  the  wide  heath 

We  rode  till  we  raced.  Then  I  gave  her  her  head, 
And  she  —  stretching  out  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth  — 
She  caught  him,  outpaced  him,  and  passed  him, 
and  led. 

We  neared  the  new  fence;  we  were  wide  of  the 
track; 
I  look'd  right  and  left  —  she  had  never  been 
tried 
At  a  stiff  leap.  T  was  little  he  cared  on  the  black. 
"  You're  more  than  a  mile  from  the  gateway,"  he 
cried. 


94  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

I  hung  to  her  head,  touched  her  flank  with  the  spurs 

(In  the  red  streak  of  rail  not  the  ghost  of  a  gap) ; 
She  shortened  her  long  stroke,  she  pricked  her 
sharp  ears, 

She  flung  it  behind  her  with  hardly  a  rap  — 
I  saw  the  post  quiver  where  BoUngbroke  struck, 

And  guessed  that  the  pace  we  had  come  the  last 
mile 
Had  blown  him  a  bit  (he  could  jump  like  a  buck). 

We  galloped  more  steadily  then  for  a  while. 

The  heath  was  soon  passM,  in  the  dim  distance 
lay 
The  mountain.    The  sun  was  just  clearing  the 
tips 
Of  the  ranges  to  eastward.  The  mare  —  could  she 
stay? 
She  was  bred  very  nearly  as  clean  as  Eclipse; 
She  led,  and  as  oft  as  he  came  to  her  side, 
She  took  the  bit  free  and  untiring  as  yet. 
Her  neck  was  arched  double,  her  nostrils  were 
wide. 
And  the  tips  of  her  tapering  ears  nearly  met  — 
"  You're  lighter  than  I  am,"  said  Alec  at  last, 
"  The  horse  is  dead  beat  and  the  mare  is  n't 
blown. 
She  must  be  a  good  one  —  ride  on  and  ride  fast, 
You  know  your  way  now."  So  I  rode  on  alone. 

Still  galloping  forward  we  pass'd  the  two  flocks 
At  Maclntyre's  hut  and  MacAllister's  hill  — 

She  was  galloping  strong  at  the  Warrigal  Rocks  — 
On  the  Wallaby  Range  she  was  galloping  still  — 


FROM  THE  WRECK  95 

And  over  the  wasteland  and  under  the  wood, 

By  down  and  by  dale,  and  by  fell  and  by  flat. 
She  gallop'd,  and  here,  in  the  stirrups  I  stood 

To  ease  her,  and  there,  in  the  saddle  I  sat 
To  steer  her.  We  suddenly  struck  the  red  loam 

Of  the  track  near  the  troughs  —  then  she  reeled 
on  the  rise  — 
From  her  crest  to  her  croup  covered  over  with  foam, 

And  blood-red  her  nostrils  and  bloodshot  her  eyes, 
A  dip  in  the  dell  where  the  wattle  fire  bloomed  — 

A  bend  round  a  bank  that  had  shut  out  the  view  — 
Large  framed  in  the  mild  light  the  mountain  had 
loom'd 

With  a  tall,  purple  peak  bursting  out  from  the 
blue, 

I  puU'd  her  together,  I  pressM  her,  and  she 

Shot  down  the  decline  to  the  Company's  yard. 
And  on  by  the  paddocks,  yet  under  my  knee 
I  could  feel  her  heart  thumping  the  saddle-flaps 
hard. 
Yet  a  mile  and  another,  and  now  we  were  near 
The  goal,  and  the  fields  and  the  farms  flitted 
past. 
And  Hwixt  the  two  fences  I  turned  with  a  cheer. 
For  a  green,  grass-fed  mare  't  was  a  far  thing  and 
fast; 
And  labourers,  roused  by  her  galloping  hoofs. 

Saw  bare-headed  rider  and  foam-sheeted  steed; 
And  shone  the  white  walls  and  the  slate-covered 
roofs 
Of  the  township.  I  steadied  her  then  —  I  had 
need  — 


96  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Where  stood  the  old  chapel  (where  stands  the  new 
church  — 
Since  chapels  to  churches  have  changed  in  that 
town). 
A  short,  sidelong  stagger,  a  long,  forward  lurch, 
A  sHght  choking  sob,  and  the  mare  had  gone 
down. 
I  slipped  off  the  bridle,  I  slackened  the  girth, 

I  ran  on  and  left  her  and  told  them  my  news; 
I  saw  her  soon  afterwards.  What  was  she  worth? 
How  much  for  her  hide?  She  had  never  worn 
shoes. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three;  • 

"  Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts 

undrew, 
"  Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our 

place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique 

right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  97 

Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew 

near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 
At  Duff  eld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is  time!*' 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray: 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And    one    eye's   black    intelligence,  —  ever   that 

glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and 

anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay 
spur! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 

We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  stagger- 
ing knees, 


98  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As   down  on  her  haunches  she   shuddered  and 
sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Loos  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white,    ~ 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"  How  they'll  greet  us !"  —  and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her 

fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  bufifcoat,  each  holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without 

peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any  noise, 

bad  or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood,  • 

And  all  I  remember  is  —  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the 
ground ; 


LORRAINE  99 


And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of 

wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent)  - 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 

from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning 

LORRAINE 

"  Are  you  ready  for  your  steeplechase,  Lorraine, 

Lorraine,  Lorree? 
You're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race  to-day  at 

Coulterlee, 
You're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  for  all  the  world  to 

see, 
To  keep  him  straight,  and  keep  him  first,  and  win 

the  run  for  me." 

She  clasped  her  new-born  baby,  poor  Lorraine, 

Lorraine,  Lorree: 
"  Unless  you  ride  Vindictive  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and  win  the 

blank  for  me, 
It's  you  may  keep  your  baby,  for  you'll  get  no  keep 

from  me." 

"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,"  said  Lorraine, 

Lorraine,  Lorree, 
"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I  have  known  for 

seasons  three; 
But  oh !  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries  for  me, 
And  be  killed  across  a  fence  at  last,  for  all  the 

world  to  see?" 


100  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

She  mastered  young  Vindictive  —  oh !  the  gallant 
lass  was  she !  — 

And  she  kept  him  straight,  and  won  the  race,  as 
near  as  near  could  be; 

But  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  against  a  pollard  wil- 
low tree, 

Oh !  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  —  the  brute !  —  for 
all  the  world  to  see, 

And  no  one  but  the  baby  cried  for  poor  Lorraine, 
Lorree. 

Charles  Kingsley 

THE  BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR 

As  I  rode  over  the  dusty  waste 
My  dainty  Arab's  hoof-strokes  traced 
Glad  rhythms  in  my  mind, 
Which  seemed  to  murmur  unto  me 
How  he  and  I  were  lone  and  free 
As  wide  Sahara's  wind. 

My  heart  beat  high  —  the  sun  was  bright  — 
And,  as  a  beacon's  startling  light 
Proclaims  a  threatening  war. 
My  burnished  lance-point  met  the  glare 
And  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  air  — 
A  pale  and  glancing  star. 

I  saw  a  hawk  pass  hovering 

Through  the  azure  heights,  on  balanced  wing; 

Its  shadow  fell  down  sheer 

Upon  my  path,  then  onwards  sped. 

Smoother  than  gliding  skaters  tread 

A  fastly  frozen  mere. 


BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR     loi 

Thus  heedless  I,  when  suddenly 

My  Hadji  broke  the  reverie 

By  stamping  on  the  ground, 

Whilst  from  a  brake  where  grasses  rank 

Embraced  the  margin  of  a  tank, 

There  came  a  rustling  sound: 

No  long  suspense;  —  his  bloodshot  eyes 
Aflame  with  sullen  fierce  surprise  — 
Stepped  out  a  grisly  boar; 
His  gloomy  aspect  seemed  to  say  — • 
"  No  other  has  the  right  to  stray 
Along  this  marsh-bound  shore." 

Now  I  had  seen  the  life  blood  gush 
From  many  a  boar  of  nine-inch  tush. 
And  so  had  Hadji  too; 
But  never  I  ween  had  we  either  seen 
So  great  a  beast,  so  gaunt  and  lean, 
So  ugly  to  the  view. 

With  others  by  to  help  at  need, 

Or  give  success  applausive  meed, 

'T  is  easy  to  be  brave; 

But  when  a  man  must  do  alone 

Each  danger  seems  more  dismal  grown; 

Each  petty  ditch  a  grave. 

And  so  —  although  the  spear-point  dropped  — 

As  still  as  ef£gy  I  stopped, 

Nor  gave  my  steed  the  spur; 

The  more  I  looked,  more  gruesome  grew 

This  king  of  all  the  swinish  crew; 

More  prudence  made  demur. 


102  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

But,  as  I  hung  in  anguished  doubt, 
The  marsh-born  tyrant  turned  about, 
As  weary  of  the  play; 
He  turned  and  dashed  adown  the  glade 
(No  phantom  now  or  goblin  shade) 
The  well-known  grisly  gray: 

And  doubt  no  more  distressed  my  mind; 

In  twenty  years  I'd  never  find 

Such  trophy  to  my  lance, 

For  turning  he  had  let  me  see 

His  tusks  gigantic  —  shame  't  would  be 

If  I  had  lost  the  chance. 

I  dropped  my  hand;  when  Hadji  knew 
The  slackened  rein  away  he  flew 
Across  the  belt  of  ooze; 
The  slim  reeds  rustled  —  till  he  sprang 
Out  on  the  plain  whose  surface  rang 
Beneath  his  iron  shoes. 

To  left,  to  right,  the  wanton  shied 
At  shadows,  as  in  lusty  pride 
He  rolled  his  dark  fierce  eye; 
Or  gazing  at  our  grim  pursuit 
HeM  lay  his  ears  back  at  the  brute 
And  snort  fxill  savagely. 

As  minutes  came,  and  lived,  and  went, 

Ever  the  monster  backward  sent 

The  pebbles  in  my  face^ 

Yet,  when  an  hour  was  spent  —  at  length 

He  seemed  to  fail  in  speed  and  strength 

And  nearer  drew  the  chase. 


BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR  103 

But  lo !  the  impetuous  Ravi  ran 

Before  us;  not  a  means  to  span 

Its  fiercely  rushing  stream; 

The  boar  sprang  in  — ■  we  never  checked  — ■ 

And  followed  ere  the  foam  that  flecked 

His  plunge  had  ceased  to  gleam. 

Above  our  heads  the  yellow  wave 

Triumphant  for  an  instant  drave, 

Then  gaping  gave  us  day; 

It  gave  us  day,  and  snorting  loud 

Bold  Hadji  stemmed  the  whirling  crowd 

Of  surges  topped  with  spray, 
*     *     * 

But  short  as  seemed  the  time  we'd  lost, 

Long  was  the  space  of  ground  it  cost. 

Not  to  be  covered  soon; 

For  distant  dim  the  monster  grim 

Now  flitted  faint  against  the  rim 

Of  the  uprising  moon. 

Yes  —  like  a  bubble  filled  with  smoke  — 

The  curd-white  moon  upswimming  broke 

The  vacancy  of  space. 

Whilst  sinking  slowly  at  my  back 

The  sun  breathed  blood  stains  on  the  rack 

Which  veiled  his  dying  face. 

On,  on,  again:  the  snow-fed  flood 
Had  cooled  the  monster's  heated  blood, 
And  fresh  and  strong  he  fled; 
An  aged  peasant  crossed  his  path; 
He  turned  upon  him  in  his  wrath. 
And  left  him  there  for  dead. 


104  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  wretch  implored  me  to  remain 

And  staunch  his  wound  —  but  all  in  vain  — 

I  laughed  to  see  his  plight; 

For  I  was  glad  the  hoar  had  stayed 

To  wound  the  man,  and  so  delayed 

His  headlong  rapid  flight. 

And  Hadji  wearied  not  a  whit, 
For  stretching  free  he'd  take  the  bit 
And  hold  it,  or  would  fling 
A  foam-flake  from  his  tossing  head, 
'    To  glitter  on  his  mane's  silk  thread, 
Whilst  ever  galloping. 

Ere  long  the  arid  landscape  changed; 
A  painter's  eye  had  gladly  ranged 
Amidst  its  varied  hue ;  — 
For  far  as  mortal  eye  could  reach, 
As  close  as  pebbles  on  the  beach 

Bright  poppy  flowers  blew. 

*     *     * 

The  crimson  of  the  flowing  west 

In  fainter  ruddy  shadows  dressed 

The  mounting  eastern  moon; 

The  slender-pillared  palm-tree  stems 

Were  sky-tinged  too,  as  though  from  gems 

Of  garnet  they  were  hewn. 

Hadji  no  longer  fought  the  hand 

Which  forced  his  fleetness  to  command, 

Or  snorted  to  the  breeze; 

His  breaths  were  choked  with  piteous  sobs, 

And  I  could  feel  his  heart's  wild  throbs 

Between  my  close-set  knees. 


BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR  105 

His  glossy  coat  no  longer  shone 

Red  golden  as  he  galloped  on, 

And  on!  without  a  check; 

Dank  sweat  had  rusted  it  to  black 

Save  where  the  reins  had  chafed  a  track 

Of  snow  along  his  neck. 

The  deepening  twilight  scarce  revealed 
Where  flights  of  shadowy  night-birds  wheeled 
And  shrieking  greeted  us, 
But  never  should  my  fixed  soul 
Forsake  the  fast-approaching  goal, 
For  omens  timorous. 

The  jackals  woke  and  like  a  rout 

Of  hell-loosed  fiends,  their  eldritch  shout 

Was  borne  upon  the  breeze  — 

Ai!  Ai!  Out  Ai! — a  ghoulish  scream, 

And  yet  half-human,  like  a  dream 

Of  mortal  agonies. 

As  I  closed  on  that  evil  beast 

The  champed  froth  like  creamy  yeast 

Be-streaked  his  grizzled  hide; 

And  like  a  small  and  smould'ring  brand 

His  eye  back-glancing  ever  scanned 

Me  creeping  to  his  side. 

Ha!  Ha!  He  turned  to  charge  and  fight; 

I  shouted  out  for  pure  delight. 

And  drove  my  spear-point  in. 

Clean  through  his  body  passed  the  steel  — 

I  held  him  off  —  I  made  him  reel  — 

Like  chafer  on  a  pin. 


io6  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

An  instant  so  —  then  through  the  womb 
Of  night  I  galloped,  and  the  gloom 
Of  jungles  lone  and  drear;  — 
But  I  had  stricken,  stricken  home, 
For  on  my  hand  his  bloody  foam 
Had  left  a  purple  smear. 

So  circling  back,  I  peered  around, 
And,  by  the  moon,  too  soon  I  found 
The  grisly  brute  at  bay; 
His  back  was  to  a  thorny  tree, 
I  looked  at  him,  and  he  at  me;  — 
There  one  of  us  would  stay. 

'T  was  still  as  death  —  we  charged  together, 

And  in  the  dim  and  sightless  weather 

I  struck  him,  but  not  true : 

He  seized  the  lance-shaft  in  his  jaw 

And  split  it  as  it  were  a  straw, 

Instead  of  good  bamboo. 

Then  swift  as  thought  the  brute  accursed, 
Made  fiercely  in  —  at  Hadji  first  — 
.  Who  much  disdained  to  fly: 
The  little  Arab  shuddering  stood  — 
Then  fell  —  as  monarchs  of  the  wood 
When  cruel  axes  ply. 

Ere  I  could  rise,  his  tusk  had  cut 
All  down  my  back  a  gaping  rut.  — 
He  gashed  me  deep  and  sore: 
No  weapon  armed  me  for  the  strife, 
But  rage  can  fight  without  a  knife, 
I  sprang  upon  the  boar. 


BALLAD  OF  HADJI  AND  THE  BOAR     107 

The  thorn  stretched  out  its  sable  claws, 
And  nodded  with  a  black  applause ! 
With  fierce  sepulchral  glee 
Three  plantains  whispered  in  a  rank, 
And  clapped  their  fingers  long  and  lank  — 
A  ghostly  gallery. 

Above  him  now  —  then  fallen  beneath, 

I  tore  him  madly  with  my  teeth, 

Nor  loosed  my  frantic  hold ; 

One  finger  searched  the  spear-head  hole 

And  dug  there  like  a  frightened  mole 

'Neath  skin  and  fieshy  fold : 

I  clung  around  his  sinewy  crest; 

He  leaped,  but  could  not  yet  divest 

Himself  of  his  alarm. 

I  hung  as  close  as  keepsake  locket 

On  maiden  breast  —  but,  from  its  socket, 

He  wrenched  my  bridle-arm ! 

No  more  could  I,  and  with  a  curse 

I  yielded  to  a  last  reverse. 

And  dropped  upon  the  sand. 

He  glowered  o*er  me  —  then  drew  back 

To  make  more  headlong  the  attack 

V/hich  nothing  should  withstand. 

But,  even  then,  he  chanced  to  pass 
The  spot  where  dying  lay  —  alas !  — 
Brave  Hadji  —  desert-born; 
Not  e'en  that  bristled  front  was  proof 
Against  the  Arab's  armed  hoof  — 
His  brains  festooned  the  thorn. 


io8  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  I  arose,  all  dripping  red, 
And  gazed  on  him  I  oft  had  fed, 
And  wept  to  see  him  low: 
No  more  he'd  gallop  in  his  pride  — 
No  mortal  man  would  e'er  bestride 
Poor  Hadji  here  below. 

He  died  amidst  those  jungles  tangled; 

I  staggered  on  all  torn  and  mangled, 

Gasping  for  painful  breath ; 

And  when,  beneath  that  placid  moon, 

My  spirit  left  me  in  a  swoon, 

I'd  known  the  worst  of  death. 

Ian  Hamilton 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG 

Mounted  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet, 

Roushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 
Son  of  the  road  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief. 

Up  the  moimtain  pathway  flew. 

Such  was  Kyrafs  wondrous  speed 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
Mpre  than  maiden,  more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold  and  next  to  life 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzeroum  and  Trebizond, 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG         109 

Garden-girt  his  fortress  stood ; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 

Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food. 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore, 

Did  his  bidding  night  and  day; 
Now,  through  regions  all  unknown, 
He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone, 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 
Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrent  roars  unseen; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm ;  on  air  must  ride 

He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 

Following  close  in  his  pursuit. 
At  the  precipice's  foot 

Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Orfah 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 

"  La  Illah  ilia  Allah !'» 

Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 
Kyrat's  forehead,  neck,  and  breast; 

Kissed  him  upon  both  his  eyes; 
Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way. 
As  upon  the  topmost  spray 

Sings  a  bird  before  it  flies. 


no  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

"  O  my  Kyrat,  O  my  steed, 
Round  and  slender  as  a  reed, 

Carry  me  this  danger  through! 
Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 
Shoes  of  gold,  O  Kyrat  mine, 

O  thou  soul  of  Kurrogloul 

"  Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein,   • 
Soft  as  woman's  hair  thy  mane, 

Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true; 
All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine. 
Polished  bright;  O  life  of  mine, 
Leap,  and  rescue  Kurrogloul" 

Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet, 

Paused  a  moment  on  the  verge, 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space. 
And  into  the  air's  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge. 

As  the  ocean  surge  o'er  sand 
Bears  a  swimmer  safe  to  land, ; 

Kyrat  safe  his  rider  bore; 
Rattling  down  the  deep  abyss 
Fragments  of  the  precipice 

Rolled  like  pebbles  on  a  shore. 

Roushan's  tasseled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head. 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook, 
Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look. 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 


PAUL  RE  VERB'S  RIDE  iii 

Flash  of  harness  in.  the  air, 
Seen  a  moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a  sword  drawn  from  its  sheath ! 
Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed, 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 

Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 

Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 
While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 

Passed  above  him.  "  Allahu!" 
Cried  he;  *'  in  all  Koordistan 
Lives  there  not  so  brave  a  man 

As  this  Robber  Kurroglou ! " 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 


He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light. 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be. 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 


112  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  he  said,  "  Good-night!"  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears. 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door. 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet. 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers. 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry- chamber  overhead. 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall. 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,  — 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill. 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  coiUd  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE  113 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well!" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  bloats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore,  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side. 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth. 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 
A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 
And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 


114  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

That  v/as  all !  And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light, 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his 

flight. 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides: 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge. 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock. 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed. 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare. 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock. 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  tovm. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock. 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees. 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead. 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RWE  115 

You  know  the  rest.  In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last. 

In  the  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed. 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 


TRACK  AND  FIELD 


HOW  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVOURITE 

"  Ay,  squire,"  said  Stevens,  "  they  back  him  at 
evens ; 
The  race  is  all  over,  bar  shouting,  they  say; 
The  Clown  ought  to  beat  her;  Dick  Neville  is 
sweeter 
Than  ever  —  he  swears  he  can  win  all  the  way. 

"  A  gentleman  rider  —  well,  I  'm  an  outsider, 

But  if  he's  a  gent,  who  the  mischief's  a  jock? 
You  swells  mostly  blunder,  Dick  rides  for  the 
plunder, 
He  rides,  too,  like  thunder  —  he  sits  like  a 
rock. 

"  He  calls  *  hunted  fairly'  a  horse  that  has  barely 
Been  stripp'd  for  a  trot  within  sight  of  the  hounds, 

A  horse  that  at  Warwick  beat  Birdlime  and  Yorick, 
And  gave  Abd-el-Kader  at  Aintree  nine  pounds. 

"  They  say  we  have  no  test  to  warrant  a  protest; 

Dick  rides  for  a  lord  and  stands  in  with  a  steward ; 
The  light  of  their  faces  they  show  him  —  his  case 
is 

Prejudged  and  his  verdict  already  secured. 

"  But  none  can  outlast  her,  and  few  travel  faster. 
She  strides  in  her  work  clean  away  from  The 
Drag, 

You  hold  her  and  sit  her,  she  could  n't  be  fitter. 
Whenever  you  hit  her  she'll  spring  like  a  stag. 


120  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

"  And  p'rhaps  the  green  jacket,  at  odds  though  they 

back  it, 

May  fall,  or  there 's  no  knowing  what  may  turn  up. 

The  mare  is  quite  ready,  sit  still  and  ride  steady. 

Keep  cool;  and  I  think  you  may  just  win  the 

Cup." 

Dark-brown,  with  tan  muzzle,  just  stripped  for  the 
tussle. 

Stood  Iseult,  just  arching  her  neck  to  the  curb, 
A  lean  head  and  fiery,  strong  quarters  and  wiry, 

A  loin  rather  light,  but  a  shoulder  superb. 

Some   parting   injimctions,   bestow'd   with   great 
unction, 

I  tried  to  recall,  but  forgot  like  a  dimce, 
"When  Reginald  Murray,  full  tilt  on  White  Surrey, 

Came  down  in  a  hurry  to  start  us  at  once. 

"  Keep  back  in  the  yellow !  Come  up  on  Othello ! 
Hold  hard  on  the  chestnut !  Turn  ^round  on  The 
Drag! 
Keep  back  there  on  Spartan !  Back  you,  sir,  in  tar- 
tan! 
So,  steady  there,  easy,"  and  down  went  the  flag. 

We  started,  and  Kerr  made  strong  running  on  Mer- 
maid, 
Through  furrows  that  led  to  the  first  stake-and- 
bound. 
The  crack   half    extended    lookM    bloodlike  and 
splendid. 
Held  wide  on  the  right  where  the  headland  was 
sound. 


HOW  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVOURITE      121 

I  pulled  hard  to  bafHe  her  rush  with  the  snaffle, 
Before  her  two-thirds  of  the  field  got  away, 

All  through  the  wet  pasture  where  floods  of  the  last 
year 
Still  loitered,  they  clotted  my  crimson  with  clay. 

The  fourth  fence,  a  wattle,  fioor'd  Monk  and  Blue- 
bottle; 
The  Drag  came  to  grief  at  the  blackthorn  and 
ditch. 
The  rails  toppled  over  Redoubt  and  Red  Rover, 
The  lane  stopped  Lycurgus  and  Leicestershire 
Witch. 

She  passed  like  an  arrow  Kildare  and  Cock  Spar- 
row, 
And  Mantrap  and  Mermaid  refused  the  stone 
wall; 
And  Giles  on  The  Grayling  came  down  at  the  paling, 
And  I  was  left  sailing  in  front  of  them  all. 

I  took  them  a  burster,  nor  eased  her  nor  nursed  her 
Until  the  black  bullfinch  led  into  the  plough. 

And  through  the  strong  bramble  we  bored  with  a 
scramble  — 
My  cap  was  knocked  off  by  the  hazel-tree  bough. 

Where  furrows  looked  lighter  I   drew  the  rein 
tighter  — 
Her  dark  chest  all  dappled  with  flakes  of  white 
foam, 
Her  flanks  mud-bespattered,  a  weak  rail  she  shat- 
tered ^ 
We  landed  on  turf  with  our  heads  turn'd  for  home. 


122  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  crash'd  a  low  binder,  and  then  close  behind 
her 

The  sward  to  the  strokes  of  the  favourite  shook, 
His  rush  roused  her  mettle,  yet  ever  so  little 

She  shortened  her  stride  as  we  raced  at  the  brook. 

She  rose  when  I  hit  her.  I  saw  the  stream  glitter, 
A  wide  scarlet  nostril  flashed  close  to  my  knee, 

Between  sky  and  water  The  Clown  came  and  caught 
her. 
The  space  that  he  cleared  was  a  caution  to  see. 

And  forcing  the  running,  discarding  all  cunning, 
A  length  to  the  front  went  the  rider  in  green; 

A  long  strip  of  stubble,  and  then  the  big  double. 
Two  stiff  flights  of  rails  with  a  quickset  between. 

She  raced  at  the  rasper,  I  felt  my  knees  grasp  her, 
I  found  my  hands  give  to  her  strain  on  the  bit. 

She  rose  when  The  Clown  did  —  our  silks  as  we 
bounded 
Brush'd  lightly,  our  stirrups  clash'd  loud  as  we  Ut. 

A  rise  steeply  sloping,  a  fence  with  stone  coping  — 
The  last  —  we  diverged  round  the  base  of  the  hill. 

His  path  was  the  nearer,  his  leap  was  the  clearer, 
I  flogg'd  up  the  straight,  and  he  led  sitting  still. 

She  came  to  his  quarter  and  on  still  I  brought  her 
And,  up  to  his  girth,  to  his  breast-plate  she  drew, 

A  short  prayer  from  Neville  just  reached  me,  **  The 
Devil !'» 
He  mutterM  —  lock'd  level  the  hurdles  we  flew; 


HOW  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVOURITE      123 

A  hum  of  hoarse  cheering,  a  dense  crowd  career- 
ing, 
All  sights  seen  obscurely,  all  shouts  vaguely 
heard, 
"  The  green  wins ! "  "  The  crimson ! "  The  multi- 
tude swims  on. 
And  figures  are  blended  and  features  are  blurr'd. 

"  The  horse  is  her  master ! "  **  The  green  forges 
past  her ! " 
"The  Clown  will  outlast  her!"  "The  Clown 
wins!"  "The  Clown!" 
The  white  railing  races  with  all  the  white  faces. 
The  chestnut  outpaces,  outstretches  the  brown. 

On,  still,  past   the   gateway   she   strains  in  the 
straightway, 
Still  struggles,  "  The  Clown  by  a  short  neck  at 
most," 
He  swerves,  the  green  scourges,  the  stand  rocks 
and  surges. 
And  flashes,  and  verges,  and  fiits  the  white 
post. 

Ay!  so  ends  the  tussle,  —  I  knew  the  tan  muzzle 
Was  first,   though  the  ring-men  were  yelling 
"Dead  heat!" 
A  nose  I  could  swear  by,  but  Clarke  said,  "  The 
mare  by 
A  short  head."  And  that 's  how  the  favourite  was 
beat. 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon 


124  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


HOW  SALVATOR  WON 

The  gate  was  thrown  open,  I  rode  out  alone, 

More  proud  than  a  monarch  who  sits  on  a  throne ; 
I  am  but  a  jockey,  but  shout  upon  shout 
I     Went  up  from  the  people  who  v/atched  me  ride  out. 
And  the  cheers  that  rang  forth  from  the  warm- 
hearted crowd 
Were  as  earnest  as  those  to  which  monarch  e*er 
bowed. 

My  heart  thrilled  with  pleasure,  so  keen  it  was  pain, 
As  I  patted  my  Salvator's  soft,  silken  mane; 

And  a  sweet  shiver  shot  from  his  hide  to  my  hand 
As  we  passed  by  the  multitude  down  to  the  stand. 

The  great  waves  of  cheering  came  billowing  back, 
As  the  hoofs  of  brave  Tenny  ran  swift  down  the 
track; 

And  he  stood  there  beside  us,  all  bone  and  all 
muscle. 

Our  noble  opponent,  well  trained  for  the  tussle 
That  waited  us  there  on  the  smooth,  shining  course. 

My  Salvator,  fair  to  the  lovers  of  horse. 
As  a  beautiful  woman  is  fair  to  man's  sight  — 

Pure  type  of  the  thoroughbred,  clean  limbed  and 
bright. 
Stood  taking  the  plaudits  as  only  his  due 

And  nothing  at  ail  unexpected  or  new. 

And  then  there  before  us  the  bright  flag  is  spread, 
There  *s  a  roar  from  the  grand  stand,  and  Tenny 's 
ahead ; 


HOW  SALVATOR  WON  125 

At  the  sound  of  the  voices  that  shouted  "  a  go ! " 
He  sprang  like  an  arrow  shot  straight  from  the 
bow; 
I  tighten  the  reins  on  Prince  CharHe's  great  son, 

He  is  off  like  a  rocket,  the  race  is  begun. 
Half  way  down  the  furlong,  their  heads  are  to- 
gether, 
Scarce  room  'twixt  their  noses  to  wedge  in  a 
feather. 
Past  grand  stand  and  judges,  in  neck-to-neck  strife, 
All,  Salvator,  boy!  't  is  the  race  of  your  life. 

I  press  my  knees  closer,  I  coax  him,  I  urge  — 

I  feel  him  go  out  with  a  leap  and  a  surge ; 
I  see  him  creep  on,  inch  by  inch,  stride  by  stride; 
While  backward,  still  backward,  falls  Tenny  be- 
side. 
We   are   nearing   the   turn,   the   first   quarter   is 
passed  — 
'Twixt  leader  and  chaser  the  daylight  is  cast; 
The  distance  elongates,  still  Tenny  sweeps  on, 
As  graceful   and   free-limbed   and   swift  as  a 
fawn. 
His    awkwardness    vanished,    his    muscles    all 
strained, 
A  noble  opponent,  well  born  and  well  trained.    • 

I  glanced  o'er  my  shoulder;  ha!  Tenny,  the  cost 
Of  that  one  second's  flagging  will  be  —  the  race 
.  lost. 
One  second's  weak  yielding  of  courage  and  strength. 
And  the  daylight  between  us  has  doubled  its 
length. 


126  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  first  mile  is  covered,  the  race  is  mine  —  no !  • 
For  the  blue  blood  of  Tenny  responds  to  a  blow. 

He  shoots  through  the  air  like  a  ball  from  a  gun, 
And  the  two  lengths  between  us  are  shortened  to 
one. 

My  heart  is  contracted,  my  throat  feels  a  lump  — 

For  Tenny's  long  neck  is  at  Salvator's  rump; 
And  now,  with  new  courage,  grows  bolder  and 
bolder. 
I  see  him  once  more  running  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
With  knees,  hands  and  body  I  press  my  great 
;  steed, 

I  urge  him,  I  coax  him,  I  pray  him  to  heed ! 
Oh,  Salvator !  Salvator !  List  to  my  calls. 

For  blow  of  my  whip  will  hurt  both  if  it  falls. 
There 's  a  roar  from  the  crowd  like  the  ocean  in 
storm. 
As  close  to  my  saddle  leaps  Tenny's  great  form; 
One  more  mighty  plunge,  and,  with  knee,  limb  and 
hand, 
I  lift  my  horse  first  by  a  nose  past  the  stand ; 
We  are  under  the  string  now  —  the  great  race  is 
done  — 
And  Salvator,  Salvator,  Salvator  won ! 

Cheer,  hoar-headed  patriarchs ;  cheer  loud,  I  say ; 

'T  is  the  race  of  the  century  witnessed  to-day ! 
Though  ye  live  twice  the  space  that's  allotted  to 
men. 

Ye  never  will  see  such  a  grand  race  again. 
Let  the  shouts  of  the  populace  roar  like  the  surf, 

For  Salvator,  Salvator,  king  of  the  turf ! 


PEDIGREES  127 

He  has  rivaled  the  record  of  thirteen  long  years, 
He  has  won  the  first  place  in  the  vast  line  of 
peers; 
'T  was  a  neck-to-neck  contest,  a  grand,  honest  race, 

And  even  his  enemies  grant  him  the  place; 

Down  into  the  dust  let  old  records  be  hurled, 

And  hang  out  2:05  to  the  gaze  of  the  world. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 


PEDIGREES 

The  stock  farms  are  booming. 

The  stable  boys  grooming. 
The  new  silken  coats  on  the  trotters  crop  out, 

The  horses  are  neighing. 

The  frisky  colts  playing. 
The  spring  is  just  throwing  her  bouquets  about. 

The  horse  kings  are  praising 

The  stock  they  are  raising. 
They  tell  you  each  strain  is  the  best  in  the  land; 

And  of  course  you  agree. 

All  the  points  you  can  see  — 
But  how  each  is  best  you  cannot  understand. 

When  you  leave  the  great  stable 
You  're  smart  if  you  're  able 
To  step  back  and  give  one  correct  pedigree. 
For  the  dams  on  the  sire's  side 
And  the  sires  on  the  dam's  side 
Are  mixed  so  you  can't  tell  one  dam  that  you 
see. 

Em.  Pierce 


128  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  YEAR 

Come  down  to  the  Derby,  come  down  to  the  race, 
Come  down  to  the  downs  with  a  smile  on  your 

face. 
In  spite  of  the  rain  and  the  absence  of  sun, 
There's  something  to  see  in  Isonomy's  son; 
You'll  find  some  good  fellows  and  lots  of  good 

cheer, 
It 's  always  the  case  at  the  race  of  the  year. 

A  wonderful  sight  is  this  wonderful  course 
To  all  v/ho  profess  a  regard  for  the  horse. 
Just  look  at  the  crowd  from  the  bend  of  the  land, 
Like  bees  in  a  swarm  all  about  the  grand  stand. 
The  roar  of  the  voices  that  falls  on  the  ear 
Has  a  wonderful  sound  at  the  race  of  the  year. 

YouVe  plenty  of  choice  if  you  look  for  a  nag; 
See  the  blood-looking  team  come  along  with  the 

drag. 
Each  horse  in  his  place  as  he  faces  the  hill, 
Breaks  into  a  gallop  and  moves  with  a  will. 
The  broken-down  hunter  tied  up  in  the  rear 
Hears  the  sound  of  the  horn  at  the  race  of  the 

year. 

But  now  to  the  paddock,  the  crowd  is  select. 
Some  come  to  be  seen  and  some  come  to  inspect 
Two  sons  of  St.  Simon,  two  sons  of  Ben  d'Or, 
While  Energy's  offspring  shows  well  to  the  fore; 
This  Gouverneur  fills  us  with  feelings  of  fear. 
Sent  over  from  France  for  the  race  of  the  year. 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  YEAR  129 

There's  something  un-Common  (forgive  me  the 

pun) 
In  Alington's  brown,  good  Isonomy's  son; 
They've  entered  the  horse  in  the  baronet's  name, 
But  both  have  a  share  in  his  fall  or  his  fame; 
The  favourite  was  bred  by  the  Dorsetshire  peer. 
He  looks  like  the  nag  for  the  race  of  the  year. 

"They're  off!"  at  the  fall   of  the  flag,  with  a 

speed 
That  tries  the  condition  of  those  in  the  lead. 
They're  off,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  and  the  rain 
That  sweeps  over  Surrey's  historical  plain. 
In  passing  the  furzes  it  seems  to  be  clear 
The  Deemster  is  out  of  the  race  of  the  year. 

And  after  the  Corner  the  shouting  is  loud 

When  Stirling's  two  grandsons  came  out  of  the 

crowd. 
And  Common  and  Gouverneur  stealing  away 
Show  the  Birdcatcher  line  has  a  value  to-day ; 
But  Common  comes  up  as  the  multitude  cheer. 
And  adds  to  his  record  the  race  of  the  year. 

V/e're  proud  of  the  Derby,  we're  proud  of  the 

breed 
Of  horses  that  go  with  such  wonderful  speed; 
We're  proud  of  the  men  who  are  honest  and 

straight 
In  riding  and  racing  and  try  to  create 
True  sport,  in  the  sense  that  is  highest  and  dear 
To  England,  whose  pride  is  this  race  of  the  year. 
W.  Phillpotts  Williams 


130  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


TEN  BROECK 

Ole  man  Harper  *s  gone  to  rest, 

Sleepin*  whar'  the  bluegrass  blows. 
On  the  upland's  verdant  crest, 

Whar'  the  merry  daisy  grows ; 
Ten  Broeck's  slab  of  marble  white 

Glistens  'neath  the  golden  sun, 
By  the  paddock,  whar'  the  might 

And  glory  of  his  fame  begun. 

Love  that  race  hoss?  Time  o'  day  I 

Harper  loved  him  like  a  child, 
And  the  first  quick  tremblin'  neigh 

Ringin'  from  the  woodland  wild 
Fell  upon  ole  Harper's  ear 

Like  a  strain  of  music  sweet. 
Were  n't  no  music  he  could  hear 

Like  the  tread  of  race-hoss  feet. 

Yes,  I  saw  that  four-mile  run 

Down  at  Louisville  in  July, 
Hot?  —  it  seemed  the  briUn'  sun 

Flamed  the  clouds  along  the  sky. 
Ten  Broeck,  white  with  lathered  foam, ' 

Like  an  eagle  cut  the  air. 
Brought  his  colors  safely  home, 

Writ  his  name  in  history  there. 

Ole  Kentucky  saw  that  day 

All  her  native  pride  retained. 
Could  n't  hold  her  joy  in  sway 

When  they  knowed  the  race  was  gained 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  JUBILEE  CUP     131 

Ole  man  Harper  *s  gone  to  rest, 

Sleepin'  whar*  the  bluegrass  blows,  — 

Ten  Broeck's  slab  is  on  the  crest 
Whar'  the  merry  daisy  grows. 

James  Tandy  Ellis 


THE  FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  THE  JUBILEE 
CUP 

You  may  lift  me  up  in  your  arms,  lad,  and  turn  my 

face  to  the  sun, 
For  a  last  look  back  at  the  dear  old  track  where  the 

Jubilee  cup  was  won; 
And  draw  your  chair  to  my  side,  lad  —  no,  thank  ye, 

I  feel  no  pain  — 
For  I  'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad ;  but  I  '11  tell  you 

the  tale  again. 

I  *m  seventy-nine  or  nearly,  and  my  head  it  has  long 

turned  gray, 
But  it  all  comes  back  as  clearly  as  though  it  was 

yesterday  — 
The  dust,  and  the  bookies  shouting  around  the 

clerk  of  the  scales. 
And  the  clerk  of  the  course,  and  the  nobs  in  force, 

and  'Is  'Ighness  the  Prince  o'  Wales. 

'T  was  a  nine-hole  thresh  to  wind'ard  (but  none  of 

us  cared  for  that). 
With  a  straight  run  home  to  the  service  tee,  and  a 

finish  along  the  flat. 


132  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

"  Stiff?"  ah,  well  you  may  say  it!  Spot  barred,  and 

at  five  stone  ten ! 
But  at  two  and  a  bisque  I'd  ha'  run  the  risk;  for  I 

was  a  greenhorn  then. 

So  we  stripped  to  the  B.  race  signal,  the  old  red 

swallowtail  — 
There  was  young  Ben  Bolt  and  the  Portland  Colt, 

and  Aston  Villa,  and  Yale; 
And    W.    G.,    and    Steinitz,    Leander    and    The 

Saint, 
And  the  German  Emperor's  Meteor,  a-looking  as 

fresh  as  paint; 

John  Roberts  (scratch),  and  Safety  Match,  The 

Lascar,  and  Lorna  Doone, 
Com  Paul  (a  bye),  and  Romany  Rye,  and  me  upon 

Wooden  Spoon; 
And  some  of  us  cut  for  partners,  and  some  of  us 

strung  for  baulk, 
And  some  of  us  tossed  for  stations  —  But  there, 

what  use  to  talk ! 


Three-quarter-back  on  the  Kingsclere  crack  was 

station  enough  for  me. 
With  a  fresh  jackyarder  blowing  and  the  Vicarage 

goal  a-lee ! 
And  I  leaned  and  patted  her  centre-bit  and  eased 

the  quid  in  her  cheek 
With  a  "  Soh,  my  lass ! "  and  a  '*  Whoa,  you  brute ! " 

—  for  she  could  do  all  but  speak. 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  JUBILEE  CUP     133 

She  was  geared  a  thought  too  high,  perhaps;  she 

was  trained  a  trifle  fine; 
But  she  had  the  grand  reach  forward !  I  never  saw 

such  a  line ! 
Smooth-bored,  clean  run,  from  her  fiddle  head  with 

its  dainty  ear  half-cock, 
Hard-bit,  pur  sang,  from  her  overhang  to  the  heel 

of  her  off  hind  sock. 


Sir  Robert  he  walked  beside  me  as  I  worked  her 

dov/n  to  the  mark; 
"There's  money  on  this,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "  and 

most  of  'em's  running  dark; 
But  ease  the  sheet  if  you're  bunkered,  and  pack 

the  scrimmages  tight. 
And  use  your  slide  at  the  distance,  and  we'll  drink 

to  your  health  to-night ! " 

But  I  bent  and  tightened  my  stretcher.  Said  I  to 

myself,  said  I  — 
"  John  Jones,  this  here  is  the  Jubilee  cup,  and  you 

have  to  do  or  die." 
And  the  words  were  n't  hardly  spoken  when  the 

umpire  shouted  "  Play!" 
And  we  all  kicked  off  from  the  Gasworks  End  with 

a  "  Yoicks!"  and  a  "  Gone  Away!" 

And  at  first  I  thought  of  nothing,  as  the  clay  flew  by 

in  lumps, 
But  stuck  to  the  old  Ruy  Lopez,  and  wondered 

who  'd  call  for  trumps, 


134  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

And  luffed  her  close  to  the  cushion,  and  watched 

each  one  as  it  broke, 
And  in  triple  file  up  the  Rowley  Mile  we  went  like  a 

trail  of  smoke. 


The   Lascar  made   the   running,   but  he   did  n't 

amount  to  much. 
For  old  Oom  Paul  was  quick  on  the  ball,  and  headed 

it  back  to  touch ; 
And  the  whole  first  flight  led  off  with  the  right  as 

The  Saint  took  up  the  pace, 
And  drove  it  clean  to  the  putting  green  and  trumped 

it  there  with  an  ace. 


John  Roberts  had  given  a  miss  in  baulk,  but  Villa 

cleared  with  a  punt; 
And  keeping  her  service  hard  and  low  the  Meteor 

forged  to  the  front; 
With  Romany  Rye  to  windward  at  dormy  and  two 

to  play, 
And  Yale  close  up  —  but  a  Jubilee  cup  is  n't  run  for 

every  day. 


We  laid  our  course  for  the  Warner  —  I  tell  you  the 
pace  was  hot ! 

And  again  off  Tattenham  Corner  a  blanket  covered 
the  lot. 

Check  side!  Check  side!  now  steer  her  wide! 
and  barely  an  inch  of  room. 

With  The  Lascar's  tail  over  our  lee  rail  and  brush- 
ing Leander's  boom. 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  JUBILEE  CUP     135 

We  were  running  as  strong  as  ever  —  eight  knots 

—  but  it  could  n't  last ; 
For  the  spray  and  the  bails  were  flying,  the  whole 

field  tailing  fast; 
And  the  Portland  Colt  had  shot  his  bolt,  and  Yale 

was  bumped  at  Doves, 
And  The  Lascar  resigned  to  Steinitz,  stalemated  in 

fifteen  moves. 


It  was  "  bellows  to  mend"  with  Roberts  —  starred 

three  for  a  penalty  kick: 
But  he  chalked  his  cue  and  gave  'em  the  butt,  and 

Oom  Paul  marked  the  trick  — 
"  Offside  —  No  Ball  — and  at  fourteen  all!  Mark 

Cock!  and  two  for  his  nob!" 
When  W.  G.  ran  clean  through  his  lee  and  beat 

him  twice  with  a  lob. 


He  yorked  him  twice  on  a  crumbUng  pitch  and 
wiped  his  eye  with  a  brace, 

But  his  guy-rope  split  with  the  strain  of  it  and  he 
dropped  back  out  of  the  race ; 

And  I  drew  a  bead  on  the  Meteor's  lead,  and  chal- 
lenging none  too  soon, 

Bent  over  and  patted  her  garboard  strake,  and 
called  upon  Wooden  Spoon. 


She  was  all  of  a  shiver  forward,  the  spoondrift  thick 

on  her  flanks. 
But  I'd  brought  her  an  easy  gambit,  and  nursed  her 

over  the  banks ; 


136  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

She  answered  her  helm  —  the  darling !  and  woke  up 

now  with  a  rush, 
While  the  Meteor's  jock,  he  sat  like  a  rock  —  he 

knew  we  rode  for  his  brush. 


There  was  no  one  else  left  in  it.  The  Saint  was 
using  his  whip. 

And  Safety  Match,  with  a  lofting  catch,  was  pock- 
eted deep  at  slip; 

And  young  Ben  Bolt  with  his  niblick  took  miss  at 
Leander's  lunge, 

But  topped  the  net  with  the  ricochet,  and  Steinitz 
threw  up  the  sponge. 

But  none  of  the  lot  could  stop  the  rot  —  nay,  don't 

ask  me  to  stop ! 
The  Villa  had  called  for  lemons,  Oom  Paul  had 

taken  his  drop, 
And  both  were  kicking  the  referee.  Poor  fellow !  he 

done  his  best; 
But,  being  in  doubt,  he'd  ruled  them  out  —  which 

he  always  did  when  pressed. 

So  inch  by  inch,  I  tightened  the  winch,  and  chucked 
the  sand  bags  out  — 

I  heard  the  nursery  cannons  pop,  I  heard  the  book- 
ies shout: 

"The  Meteor  wins!"  "No,  Wooden  Spoon!" 
"  Check!"  "  Vantage!"  "  Leg  Before!" 

"Last  Lap!"  "Pass  Nap!"  At  his  saddle-flap,  I 
put  up  the  helm  and  wore. 


FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF  JUBILEE  CUP     137 

You  may  overlap  at  the  saddle-flap  and  yet  be 
looM  on  the  tape, 

And  it  all  depends  upon  changing  ends,  how  a  seven- 
year-old  will  shape; 

It  was  tack  and  tack  to  the  Lepe  and  back,  —  a  fair 
ding-dong  to  the  Ridge, 

And  he  led  by  his  forward  canvas  yet  as  we  shot 
'neath  Hammersmith  Bridge. 


He  led  by  his  forward  canvas  —  he  led  from  his 

strongest  suit  — 
But  along  we  went  on  a  roaring  scent,  and  at  Faw- 

ley  I  gained  a  foot. 
He  fisted  off  with  his  jigger,  and  gave  me  his  wash 

—  too  late ! 
Deuce  —  Vantage  —  Check !  By  neck  and  neck  we 

roimded  into  the  straight. 


I  could  hear  the  "  Conquering  'Ero"  a-crashing  on 

Godfrey's  band, 
And  my  hopes  fell  sudden  to  zero,  just  there,  with 

the  race  in  hand  — 
In  sight  of  the  Turf's  Blue  Ribbon,  in  sight  of  the 

umpire's  tape, 
And  I  felt  the  tack  of  her  spinnaker  c-r-rack !  as  I 

heard  the  steam  escape ! 

Had  I  lost  at  that  awful  juncture  my  presence  of 

mind?  .  .  .  but  no ! 
I  leaned  and  felt  for  the  puncture,  and  plugged  it 

there  with  my  toe  .  . . 


138  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Hand  over  hand  by  the  Members'  Stand  I  lifted 

and  eased  her  up, 
Shot  —  clean  and  fair  —  to  the  crossbar  there,  and 

landed  the  Jubilee  cup ! 

"  The  odd  by  a  head,  and  leg  before,"  so  the  Judge 
he  gave  the  word: 

And  the  umpire  shouted  "  Over!"  but  I  neither 
spoke  not  stirred. 

They  crov/ded  'round :  for  there  on  the  ground  I  lay 
in  a  dead-cold  swoon 

Pitched  neck  and  crop  on  the  turf  atop  of  my  beauti- 
ful Wooden  Spoon. 


Her  dewlap  tire  was  punctured,  her  bearings  all  red 

hot; 
She'd  a  lolling  tongue,  and  her  bowsprit  sprung, 

and  her  running  gear  in  a  knot; 
And  amid   the   sobs  of  her  backers,  Sir  Robert 

loosened  her  girth 
And  led  her  away  to  the  knacker's.  She  had  raced 

her  last  on  earth ! 


But  I  mind  me  well  of  the  tear  that  fell  from  the  eye 
of  our  noble  Prince, 

And  the  things  he  said  as  he  tucked  me  in  bed  — 
and  I've  lain  there  ever  since; 

Tho'  it  all  gets  mixed  up  queerly  that  happened 
before  my  spill,  — 

But  I  drew  a  thousand  yearly:  it'll  pay  for  the  doc- 
tor's bill. 


THE  TROTTING  WONDERS  OF  1889     I39 

I'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad  —  you'll  dig  me  a 

humble  grave, 
And  whiles  you  will  bring  your  bride,  lad,  and  your 

sons,  if  sons  you  have. 
And  there  when  the  dews  are  weeping,  and  the 

echoes  murmur  "  Peace!" 
And  the  salt,  salt  tide  comes  creeping  and  covers 

the  popping-crease ; 

In  the  hour  when  the  ducks  deposit  their  eggs  with 

a  boasted  force. 
They  '11  look  and  whisper, "  How  was  it?  "  and  you  '11 

take  them  over  the  course. 
And  your  voice  will  break  as  you  try  to  speak  of  the 

glorious  first  of  June, 
When  the  Jubilee   cup,  with  John  Jones  up,  was 

won  upon  Wooden  Spoon. 

Arthur  T.  Quiller- Couch 


THE  TROTTING  WONDERS  OF  1889 

As  o'er  old  '89  the  veil  was  dropped 

That  shut  from  view  the  past,  tho'  not  forgot, 

Old  veterans  in  the  years  to  come  will  read 

Of  '89,  the  year  of  wondrous  speed. 

Maud  S.,  the  queen,  stood  trembling  in  her  stall, 

In  fear  of  baby  three-year-old  Simol !  ^3 

And  Bonner,  still,  to  keep  the  magic  crown. 

For  safety  thought,  't  was  better  to  come  down 

And  buy  the  wonder  ere  she  snatched  the  prize 

That  Maud  still  clutched  before  his  welcome  eyes. 

Tho'  Simol  is  a  marvel  sure  enough. 

There 're  other  youngsters,  still  within  the  rough, 


140  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Who  yet  may  knock  some  seconds  from  the  mark, 

And  leave  famed  Bonner's  stable  in  the  dark; 

Axtell,  the  king,  electrify  the  world  — 

Stamboul  or  Palo  Alto  take  a  whirl ! 

These  wonders  stand  a  very  likely  show 

To  stop  the  ticker  just  a  notch  below. 

Among  the  wonders,  which,  say  you,  is  best? 

If  you'll  allow,  I'll  pick  one  from  the  nest  — 

I'll  lay  my  hand  on  Axtell's  infant  head, 

The  greatest  wonder  yet  aUve  or  dead ! 

Maud  S.,  you  say,  with  Queen  stamped  on  her  brow, 

And  Axtell  still  to  Sunol  has  to  bow. 

Yes,  that  we  grant;  but  look  the  trainers  o'er  — 

Was  ever  such  a  thing  heard  of  before; 

A  novice  in  the  art,  breed,  raise  and  drive 

The  fastest  stallion  that  stands  up  alive. 

And  only  three  years  old,  when  like  a  ghost 

He  tore  the  stallion  record  from  the  post? 

It  takes  an  expert  to  get  all  the  speed 

That's  wrapped  up  in  the  fieety-going  steed. 

Experience  and  skill  in  all  things  will  excel, 

And  that  is  why  Sunol  has  beat  Axtell. 

Time  wins  at  last  with  all,  no  getting  by  it. 

Although  we  never  give  up  till  we  try  it. 

The  trotting  wonders  seen  in  '89 

Will  brightly  shine  upon  the  page  of  time. 

Em.  Pierce 

IN  MEMORY  OF  NANCY  HANKS 

Dead  is  the  famous  Nancy, 
One  time  Queen  of  the  Trot, 

That  went  against  all  comers 
And  got  away  with  the  lot.  ^ 


m  MEMORY  OF  NANCY  HANKS       141 

Lot  of  the  swiftest  speeders 

That  ever  hit  the  track, 
But  Nancy  showed  them  her  paces, 

And  set  the  whole  bunch  back. 


Back  to  the  common  figures 
Which  mark  the  fastest  stunt 

Of  their  very  best  performance, 
While  Nancy  went  to  the  front. 

Front  of  the  trotting  record 
That  turned  all  others  down. 

And  placed  on  the  time  of  Nancy 
The  Queen  of  the  Trotters'  crown. 

Crown  that  she  wore  with  honor 
Through  many  a  brilliant  race, 

And  passed  it  on  to  the  next  one 
Fitted  to  fill  her  place. 

Place  in  the  glory  record, 

Up  there  at  the  head. 
Lit  by  the  blazing  turf-light, 

Undimmed  now  she  is  dead. 


Dead  out  there  in  Kentucky, 

At  rest  in  a  bluegrass  spot. 
Where  the  lovers  of  all  good  horses 

May  lay  a  forget-me-not. 

Will  J.  Lampion 


142  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


THE  RINGERS 

Yes,  I  've  traveled  with  a  ringer, 
Slept  and  drank  and  ate  my  dinner 
In  a  box  car  with  a  winner, 

Going  forty  miles  an  hour; 
And  I  *ve  rubbed  his  quivering  muscle 
In  between  heats,  in  a  tussle. 
When  he  had  to  hump  and  hustle 

And  show  all  his  speed  and  power. 

But  that  ringer  was  a  wonder. 
They  could  never  knock  him  under, 
Unless  some  one  made  a  blunder. 

Or  he  might  be  "  Wrong,"  you  know! 
But  when  in  a  "  fit  '*  condition, 
Let  him  draw  any  old  position. 
He  just  seemed  to  know  his  mission 

When  the  word  was  given,  —  "  go ! " 

When  I M  take  my  seat  behind  him, 
I  would  know  just  where  to  find  him, 
And  I  never  used  to  mind  him, 

If  he  scored  a  little  rank; 
For  I  knew  he  soon  would  settle, 
Altho'  full  of  game  and  mettle. 
He  would  never  chafe  or  nettle. 

For  he  was  no  trotting  crank ! 

Oh,  the  name  he  trotted  under. 
Well,  he  sure  had  quite  a  number, 
And  I  often  had  to  wonder 


THE  RINGERS  143 


What  we  'd  better  call  him  next! 
Sometimes  we  would  dub  him  Hard  Oaks, 
Yes,  some  fellows  thought  him  Small  Hopes, 
Then,  again  we  named  him  Tough  Spokes, 

And  he  answered  well  the  text. 

One  day  we  M  trot,  then  ship  him. 
Three  hundred  miles  we  'd  shp  him 
Before  again  we  'd  strip  him 

As  a  green  one  for  the  race ; 
It  makes  me  blush  to  say  it. 
It 's  a  dirty  way  to  play  it. 
But  the  tariff  —  we  must  pay  it, 

And  put  on  an  honest  face. 

But  at  last,  out  West  we  got  it. 
When  two  Blue  Bulls  like  a  rocket 
Ran  and  paced  us  in  the  pocket. 

While  the  judges  blandly  smile ; 
To  our  claim  of  foul,  they,  winking, 
Say  according  to  their  thinking, 
I  'm  a  crank,  or  been  a-drinking, 

Or  I  'm  playing  Eastern  "  style ! " 

But  away  once  more  we  're  going. 
And  the  gang  I  think  I  'm  showing 
That  they  '11  have  a  chance  of  blowing 

Ere  they  head  me  in  the  race ; 
But  I  see  a  Blue  Bull  coming. 
He 's  not  trotting,  neither  running. 
But  with  stride  terrific,  stunning. 

That  side-wheeler  takes  my  place. 


144  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

But  the  crowd  all  swear  he  *s  trotting, 
And  my  protest  goes  for  nothing, 
All  I  get  is  hoots  and  scoffing, 

While  I  ask  for  justice  there; 
But  the  judges  with  a  glimmer. 
Say  you  pesky  New  York  sinner. 
That  Blue  Bull  has  beat  your  ringer, 

And  he  trotted  fair  and  square. 

Well,  we  thought  we  M  do  no  squeaUng 
As  our  business,  close  to  stealing, 
Kinder  soothed  us  in  our  feeling, 

And  we  shipped  for  home  that  day; 
But  that  Indiana  stinger. 
Was  the  first  and  last  dust  slinger. 
That  played  havoc  with  our  ringer,  — 

Which  is  all  I  have  to  say. 

Em.  Pierce 


OUR  HORSES 

This  is  our  English  stable  lad, 

A  curious  mixture  of  good  and  bad  — 

But  a  way  with  a  horse  that  would  make  you  glad  — 

With  his  "  thank  you,  sir ! "  and  his  "  very  good," 

His  sure  light  hand  and  a  head  like  wood;  , 

He  sits  as  only  a  horseman  could, 

In  the  saddle  where  he  was  bred. 


Royally  bred  and  quick  as  a  cat, 

A  little  light,  but  her  bone  is  fiat. 

This  Roman-nosed  filly  we  're  looking  at. 


OUR  HORSES  145 


She  *s  three  year  old  and  I  beg  to  state 
You  ^d  open  your  eyes  if  you  saw  the  rate 
That  filly  can  step  to  a  five-bar  gate 
And  clear  it  out  of  her  stride. 

This  chestnut  mare  is  rising  five ; 
I  doubt  if  we  ever  will  break  her  alive, 
To  go  under  saddle  or  even  to  drive  — 
It  all  depends  on  the  way  she  feels. 
She 's  mighty  ticklish  round  the  heels, 
I  *d  rather  be  on  her  than  over  the  wheels 
When  day-light  shines  on  her  shoes. 

There 's  a  big  bay  horse  in  the  third  loose  box 

With  a  coat  like  satin  and  three  white  socks, 

Powerful  stifle  and  clean-cut  hocks  — 

A  bold  bright  eye  and  a  heart  of  gold, 

A  mouth  as  light  as  a  child  could  hold  — 

He  never  knew  wrong  since  the  day  he  was  foaled ; 

A  hunter  of  high  degree. 

She  can  trot  all  day  and  be  just  the  same; 

In  the  shov/  ring,  too,  she  has  made  her  name ; 

There 's  not  a  hair  in  her  hide  but  is  game. 

The  best  of  all  till  the  last  I  save : 

So  strong,  so  honest,  so  gentle  and  brave. 

She  has  paid  us  back  every  copper  we  gave  — 

The  big  brown  mare  at  the  end. 

They  are  all  sold  now  and  I  long  in  vain 
To  feel  the  pull  on  the  bridle  rein 
Or  hear  the  creak  of  a  saddle  again; 


146  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

To  handle  a  horse  for  his  own  sweet  sake, 

As  he  frets  for  his  head  while  you  give  and 

take, 
Till  you  see  a  jump  you  know  you  can  make, 
Then  loose  him,  and  over  he  goes. 

F,  M.  W, 


THE  FOXHUNTER'S  DREAM 

I  sit  and  close  my  eyelids  and  I  dream  I  see  them 

pass, 
I  seem  to  smell  the  perfume  of  the  bracken  and  the 

grass. 
The  stirring  cries  of  hunting  ring  again  throughout 

my  brain. 
The  longing  that  it  rouses  there  is  worse  than  any 

pain. 

Above  the  roar  of  London  I  can  hear  the  voice  of 

hounds, 
The  cracking  of  the  huntsman's  whip  and  other 

telling  sounds. 
The  din  of  locomotion  in  the  teeming  busy  street 
Is  changed  into  the  patter  of  a  fox's  flying  feet. 

I  dream  I  watch  his  progress  as  he  scuds  along  the 

ground, 
And  seem  to  know  his  purpose  and  the  goal  to 

which  he 's  bound. 
And  though  his  heart  is  bursting  and  his  eyes  are 

red  with  rage, 
He  pushes  on  his  journey,  with  defiance,  stage  by 

stage. 


THE  FOXHUNTER'S  DREAM  147 

He  glares  about  him  —  dares  not  rest  —  they  're 

hot  upon  the  scent! 
They^re    coming!  Ah,    they're    closer,   and    his 

strength  is  nearly  spent. 
I  grip  my  armchair  handles  with  the  sweat  upon  my 

brow  — 
My  sympathy  is  with  the  fox;  I  want  to  save  him 

now! 

But  hounds  are  running,  noses  down,  at  a  terrific 
rate. 

The  first  red-coated  rider  neatly  tops  the  five- 
barred  gate. 

The  huntsman  rams  the  rowels  in  and  grips  his 
saddle  tight; 

Behind  him  streams  the  eager  field  —  it  is  a  thrill- 
ing sight! 

And  far  down  yonder  em'rald  slope  a  little  moving 

speck 
Holds  ev'ry  eye  and  ev'ry  heart;  they're  gaining 

neck  by  neck. 
The  thundering  of  hoofs  rings  out  and  hounds  are 

screaming  shrill, 
That  little  fox,  he 's  made  of  grit  —  he 's  leading ! 

leading  still ! 

Then  with  a  start  the  vision 's  gone !  Dull  business 

claims  the  day. 
I  '11  never  know,  but  still  I  guess,  that  fox  got  right 

away. 

G.  C.  Scheu 


148  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


THE  ELKRIDGE  HUNT  CLUB 

The  Elkridge  pack  went  out  one  day, 
To  hunt  in  Harford  far  away, 
The  riders  all  were  keen  and  gay, 
,     Their  hounds  were  fit  and  ready. 
In  wooded  covert  soon  they  "  found,'* 
Right  on  the  trail  was  every  hound, 
With  stern  in  air  and  nose  to  ground, 
The  pace  was  fast  and  steady. 

The  course  lay  over  hill  and  dale. 
The  jumps  were  on  a  biggish  scale, 
With  ditches  wide  and  post  and  rail. 

That  took  a  **  lot  of  doing." 
But  on  the  pack  relentless  pressed 
The  field,  in  "  pink"  and  mufti  dressed, 
All  riding  hard,  as  if  "  possessed," 

Close  on  their  heels  pursuing. 

At  length  to  give  the  pack  a  lurch. 

The  wily  fox  made  for  a  church. 

Where  moss-grown  tombs  might  stop  the  search. 

And  give  him  time  for  breathing. 
And  here  he  found  a  strong  ally, 
For  as  the  pack  came  in  "  full  cry," 
Out  stepped  a  black-frocked  Dominie, 

With  wrath  and  anger  seething. 

The  foremost  rider  came  in  sight, 
A  picture  she  with  color  bright, 
Her  dark  blue  habit  fitting  tight, 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HORSE        149 

Her  mount  well-bred  and  mannered. 
She  cleared  the  wall  in  gallant  shape, 
And  saw  the  parson  stand  a-gape. 
(Meanwhile  the  fox  made  his  escape 

And  down  the  hill  meandered.) 

"  Hold  hard!"  the  parson  called  aloud, 
"  What  means  this  sacrilegious  crowd? 
With  shame  my  scanty  locks  are  bowed 

To  think  of  such  misdoing. 
Consider  well  this  pious  thatch ! 
Don't  ride  upon  my  spinach  patch ! 
My  cat  is  scared  —  the  eggs  won't  hatch ! 

The  mischief  is  a-brewing ! 

"Get  out!  Vamoose!  Shoo!  Scat!  Begone  I 
Woe !  Woe !  Alas !  I  'm  all  undone ! 
Go  right  back  home  each,  every  one ! 

And  hang  your  heads  in  sorrow ! 
But  —  if  that  lady  on  the  bay 
Will  jump  that  fence  across  the  way, 
You  all  can  come  back  every  day. 

Beginning  with  to-morrow." 

D.  S.  G. 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HORSE 

Horses,  like  men,  need  a  fair  bit  of  schooling, 
Three  things  are  certain,  whatever  they  say ; 

Kindness  and  courage,  and  patience  you  must 
have  — 
Breaking  a  horse  is  not  done  in  a  day. 


150  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

No  matter  what  is  his  age  or  his  temper, 
One  method  only  for  all  in  the  main, 

Not  one  way  with  one  horse,  and  one  with  another — 
Seek  to  get  nearer  the  animal's  brain. 

Instead  of  applying  the  whip  and  the  rowel, 
Feel  him  out  firmly  with  finger  and  Imee, 

Speak  to  him  coolly,  coax  him  as  kindly  — 
Or  maybe  you'll  fly  on  the  first  bit  of  lea. 

If  you  would  master  him,  why  not  remember 
To  first  teach  yourself  how  to  work  and  obey? 

Are  the  lazy  and  insolent  best  in  the  saddle 
When  effort  and  duty  ne'er  came  in  their  way? 

See  to  the  grazing,  the  stabUng  and  feeding. 
Consider  the  sort  of  condition  they're  in; 

You  like  some  comfort  and  good  food  to  work  on  — 
Then  never  break  horses  when  hungry  and  thin. 

Give  a  young  bolter  the  rein  for  a  moment, 
Play  with  his  nature  and  see  what  he'll  do; 

Sure  —  if  you  bear  on  him,  jag  him  and  saw  him, 
There  may  be  a  wide  gap  a-tween  him  and  you. 

If  he  "  takes  hold"  as  you're  going  to  covert. 
And  you  are  not  feeling  as  fit  as  you  should, 

Give  him  three  turns  'round  a  plough  with  its  fur- 
row — 
It  might  tend  to  alter  his  fidgety  mood. 

Some  are  for  thrashing  and  "  running  'em  done," 
Those  that  have  taken  to  bolt  or  to  kick; 

Others,  with  Galvayne,  would  humor  their  hearing; 
Many  a  good  'im  is  spoil'd  with  a  stick. 


THE  OLD  GRAY  MARE  151 

When  he's  done  well,  he  should  know  you  com- 
mend him, 
This  is  his  due  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
The  horse  understands   brains  makes  man  the 
master, 
So  break  in  yourself  —  and  then  break  in  the 
horse. 

George  A.  Father  gill 

THE  OLD  GRAY  MARE 

There's  a  line  of  rails  on  an  up-land  green 
With  a  good  take-ofif  and  a  landing  sound. 

Six  fences  grim  as  were  ever  seen. 
And  it's  there  I  would  be  with  fox  and  hound. 

Oh,  that  was  a  country  free  and  fair 

For  the  raking  stride  of  my  old  gray  mare ! 

With  her  raking   stride  and   her  head  borne 
high, 

And  her  ears  a-prick,  and  her  heart  a-flame. 
And  the  steady  look  of  her  deep  brown  eye, 

I  warrant  the  gray  mare  knew  the  game : 
It  was  "  Up  to  it,  lass!"  and  before  I  knew, 
We  were  up  and  off,  and  on  we  flew. 

The  rooks  from  the  grass  got  up,  and  so. 
With  a  caw  and  flap,  away  they  went ; 

When  the  gray  mare  made  up  her  mind  to  go 
At  the  tail  of  the  hounds  on  a  breast-high 
scent. 

The  best  of  the  startled  rooks  might  fail 

To  match  her  flight  over  post  and  rail. 


152  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

While  some  of  the  thrusters  grew  unnerved, 
And  looked  and  longed  for  an  open  gate, 

And  one  crashed  down  and  another  swerved. 
She  went  for  it  always  true  and  straight : 

She  pounded  the  lot,  for  she  made  it  good 

With  never  a  touch  of  splintered  wood. 

Full  many  a  year  has  come  and  gone 

Since  last  she  gathered  her  spring  for  me, 

And  lifted  me  up,  and  so  fiew  on 

Unchecked  in  a  country  fair  and  free. 

I've  ridden  a  score  since  then,  but  ne'er 

Crossed  one  that  could  live  with  the  old  gray  mare. 

R.  C.  Lehmann 

"NOTA  BENE" 

Boys,  to  the  hunting  field!  Though  't  is  November, 

The  wind 's  in  the  south  —  but  a  word  ere  we 
start ; 
However  excited,  you'll  please  to  remember 

That  hunting 's  a  science,  and  riding  an  art. 
The  fox  takes  precedence  of  all  from  the  cover; 

The  hunter's  an  animal  purposely  bred, 
After  the  pack  to  be  ridden,  not  over: 

Hoimds  are  not  reared  to  be  knocked  on  the  head. 

Anonymous 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIRE 

'T  was  a  wild,  mad  kind  of  night,  as  black  as  the 

bottomless  pit; 
The  wind  was  howling  away  like  a  Bedlamite  in  a 

fit. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIRE     153 

Tearing  the  ash  boughs  off,  and  mowing  the  poplars 

down, 
In  the  meadows  beyond  the  old  flour  mill,  where 

you  turn  off  to  the  town. 

And  the  rain  (well  it  did  rain)  dashing  against  the 

window  glass, 
And  deluging  on  the  roof,  as  the  Devil  were  come  to 

pass; 
The  gutters  were  running  in  floods  outside  the 

stable  door, 
And  the  spouts  splashed  from  the  tiles,  as  they 

would  never  give  o'er. 

Lor',  how  the  winders  rattled!  you'd  almost  ha' 

thought  that  thieves 
Were  wrenching  at  the  shutters,  while  a  ceaseless 

'^ '    pelt  of  leaves 
Flew  to  the  doors  in  gusts;  and  I  could  hear  the 

beck 
Falling  so  loud  I  knew  at  once  it  was  up  to  a  tall 

man's  neck. 


We  was  huddling  in  the  harness-room,  by  a  little 

scrap  of  fire, 
And  Tom,  the  coachman,  he  was  there,  a-practising 

for  the  choir; 
But  it  sounded  dismal,  the  anthem  did,  for  Squire 

was  dying  fast. 
And  the  doctor  said,  do  what  he  would,  Squire's 

breaking  up  at  last. 


154  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  death-watch,  sure  enough,  ticked  loud  just  over 

th'  owd  mare's  head, 
Though  he  had  never  once  been  heard  up  there 

since  master's  boy  lay  dead; 
And  the  only  sound,  beside  Tom's  tune,  was  the 

stirring  in  the  stalls, 
And  the  gnawing  and  the  scratching  of  the  rats  in 

the  owd  walls. 


We  couldn't  hear  Death's  foot  pass  by,  but  we 

knew  that  he  was  near, 
And  the  chill  rain,  and  the  wind  and  cold,  made  us 

all  shake  with  fear; 
We  listened  to  the  clock  up-stairs,  't  was  breathing 

soft  and  low. 
For  the  nurse  said,  at  the  turn  of  night  the  old 

Squire's  soul  would  go. 

Master  had  been  a  wildish  man,  and  led  a  roughish 

life; 
Did  n't  he  shoot  the  Bowton  Squire,  who  dared 

write  to  his  wife? 
He  beat  the  Rads  at  Hindon  Town,  I  heard,  in 

twenty-nine, 
When  every  pail  in  the  market  place  was  brimmed 

with  red  port  wine. 

And  as  for  hunting,  bless  your  soul,  why,  for  forty 

years  or  more 
He'd  kept  the  Marley  hounds,  man,  as  his  fayther 

did  afore;  ^ 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIRE     155 

And  now  to  die,  and  in  his  bed  —  the  season  just 

begun  — 
"  It  made  him  fret,"  the  doctor  said,  "  as  it  might 

do  any  one." 

And  when  the  young  sharp  lawyer  came  to  see  him 

sign  his  will, 
Squire  made  me  blow  my  horn  outside  as  we  were 

going  to  kill; 
And  we  turned  the  hounds  out  in  the  court  —  that 

seemed  to  do  him  good; 
For  he  swore,  and  sent  us  off  to  seek  a  fox  in 

ThornhiU  Wood. 


But  then  the  fever  it  rose  high,  and  he  would  go  see 
the  room 

Where  mistress  died  ten  years  ago  when  Lammas- 
tide  shall  come; 

I  mind  the  year,  because  our  mare  at  Salisbury 
broke  down; 

Moreover,  the  town-hall  was  burnt  at  Steeple  Din- 
ton  Town. 


It  might  be  l-wo,  or  half-past  two,  the  wind  seemed 

quite  asleep; 
Tom,  he  v^ras  off,  but  I,  awake,  sat  watch  and  ward 

to  keep; 
The  moon  was  up,  quite  glorious  like,  the  rain  no 

longer  fell, 
When  all  at  once  out  clashed  and  clanged  the  rusty 

turret  bell 


156  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

That  had  n't  been  heard  for  twenty  year,  not  since 

the  Luddite  days. 
Tom  he  leaped  up,  and  I  leaped  up,  for  all  the  house 

a-blaze 
Had  sure  not  scared  us  half  so  much,  and  out  we 

ran  like  mad, 
I,  Tom  and  Joe,  the  whipper-in,  and  t*  little  stable 

lad. 


**  He's  killed  himself,"  that's  the  idea  that  came 

into  my  head ; 
I  felt  as  sure  as  though  I  saw  Squire  Barrowly  was 

dead; 
When  all  at  once  a  door  flew  back,  and  he  met  us 

face  to  face; 
His  scarlet  coat  was  on  his  back,  and  he  looked  like 

the  old  race. 


The  nurse  was  clinging  to  his  knees,  and  crying  like 

a  child; 
The  maids  were  sobbing  on  the  stairs,  for  he  looked 

fierce  and  wild; 
"  Saddle  me  Lightning  Bess,  my  men,"  that's  what 

he  said  to  me; 
"  The  moon  is  up,  we  're  sure  to  *  find '  at  Stop  or 

Etterly. 

"  Get  out  the  dogs;  I'm  well  to-night,  and  young 

,  again  and  sound, 
I  '11  have  a  run  once  more  before  they  put  me  under 
ground ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIRE     157 

They  brought  my  father  home  feet  first,  and  it  never 

shall  be  said 
That  his  son  Joe,  who  rode  so  straight,  died  quietly 

in  his  bed. 


"  Brandy!"  he  cried;  "  a  timibler  full,  you  women 

howling  there"; 
Then  clapped  the  old  black  velvet  cap  upon  his  long 

gray  hair. 
Thrust  on  his   boots,   snatched   down  his  whip, 

though  he  was  old  and  weak; 
There  was  a  devil  in  his  eye  that  would  not  let  me 

speak. 

We  loosed  the  dogs  to  humor  him,  and  sounded  on 
the  horn; 

The  moon  was  up  above  the  woods,  just  east  of 
Haggard  Bourne; 

I  buckled  Lightning's  throat-lash  fast  —  the  Squire 
was  watching  me ; 

He  let  the  stirrups  down  himself  so  quick,  yet  care- 
fully. 


Then  up  he  got  and  spurred  the  mare,  and,  ere  I  well 

could  mount. 
He  drove  the  yard  gate  open,  man,  and  called  to  old 

Dick  Blount, 
Our  huntsman,  dead  five  years  ago  —  for  the  fever 

rose  again, 
And  was  spreading  like  a  flood  of  flame  fast  up  into 

his  brain. 


158  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  off  he  flew  before  the  dogs,  yelling  to  call  us 

on, 
While  we  stood  there,  all  pale  and  dumb,  scarce 

knowing  he  was  gone ; 
We  mounted,  and  below  the  hiJ^  we  saw  the  fox 

break  out. 
And  down  the  covert  side  we  heard  the  old  Squire^s 

parting  shout. 

And  in  the  moonlit  meadow  mist  we  saw  him  fly 

the  rail 
Beyond  the  hurdles  by  the  beck,  just  half-way  down 

the  vale; 
I  saw  him  breast  fence  after  fence  —  nothing  could 

turn  him  back; 
And  in  the  moonlight  after  him  streamed  out  the 

brave  old  pack. 

'T  was  like  a  dream,  Tom  cried  to  me,  as  we  rode 

free  and  fast, 
Hoping  to  turn  him  at  the  brook,  that  could  not  well 

be  passed. 
For  it  was  swollen  with  the  rain :  but  ah !  't  was  not 

to  be; 
Nothing  could  stop  old  Lightning  Bess  but  the 

broad  breast  of  the  sea. 


The  hounds  swept  on,  and  well  in  front  the  mare 

had  got  her  stride; 
She  broke  across  the  fallow  land  that  rims  by  the 

down  side; 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  SQUIPvE     159 

We  pulled  up  on  Chalk  Linton  Hill,  and,  as  we 

stood  us  there, 
Two  fields  beyond  we  saw  the  Squire  fall  stone  dead 

from  the  mare. 

Then  she  swept  on,  and  in  full  cry  the  hoimds  went 
out  of  sight; 

A  cloud  came  over  the  broad  moon  and  something 
dimmed  our  sight. 

As  Tom  and  I  bore  master  home,  both  speaking  un- 
der breath; 

And  that's  the  way  I  saw  th*  owd  Squire  ride  boldly 
to  his  death. 

Anonymous 


"  HORSE-PLAY  " 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL 

At  a  roundup  on  the  Gily 

One  sweet  mornin'  long  ago, 
Ten  of  us  was  throw^ed  right  freely 

By  a  hawse  from  Idaho. 
And  we  thought  he  'd  go  a-beggin' 

For  a  man  to  break  his  pride, 
Till,  a-hitchin'  up  one  leggin, 

Boastful  Bill  cut  loose  and  cried  — 

"/*m  a  on^ry  proposition  for  to  hurt; 

I  fulfill  my  earthly  mission  with  a  quirt; 
I  kin  ride  the  highest  liver 
^Tween  the  Gulf  and  Powder  River, 

And  ril  break  this  thing  as  easy  as  Pd  flirt." 

So  Bill  climbed  the  Northern  Fury 

And  they  mangled  up  the  air 
Till  a  native  of  Missouri 

Would  have  owned  his  brag  was  fair. 
Though  the  plunges  kep'  him  reelin* 

And  the  wind  it  flapped  his  shirt, 
Loud  above  the  hawse's  squealin' 

We  could  hear  our  friend  assert: 

"/*m  the  one  to  take  such  takings  as  a  Joke, 
Some  one  hand  me  up  the  makings  of  a  smoke  f 

If  you  think  my  fame  needs  brighVnin' 

W^y,  Pll  rope  a  streak  of  lightnin' 
And  ril  cinch  Hm  up  and  spur  'zm  till  he^s  hrokeJ* 


i64  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Then  one  caper  of  repiilsion 

Broke  that  hawse's  back  in  two. 
Cinches  snapped  in  the  convulsion; 

Skyward  man  and  saddle  flew. 
Up  he  mounted,  never  lagging 

While  we  watched  him  through  our  tears, 
And  his  last  thin  bit  of  braggin* 

Came  a-droppin'  to  our  ears: 

"  If  you^d  ever  watched  my  habits  very  close 
You  would  know  Pve  broke  such  rabbits  by  the 
gross. 
I  have  kep^  my  talent  hidin'; 
Pm  too  good  for  earthly  ridin^ 
And  Pm  off  to  bust  the  lightnin*  — 
Adios.f' 


Years  have  gone  since  that  ascension, 

Boastful  Bill  ain't  never  Ut; 
So  we  reckon  that  he 's  wrenchin' 

Some  celestial  outlaw's  bit. 
When  the  night  rain  beats  our  slickers 

And  the  wind  is  swift  and  stout, 
And  the  lightnin'  flares  and  flickers, 

We  kin  sometimes  hear  him  shout  — • 

"  Pm  a  bronco- twistin^  wonder  on  the  fly; 

Pm  the  ridin^  son-of- thunder  of  the  sky. 
Hi!  you  earthlin^s,  shut  your  winders 
While  we^re  rippin^  clouds  to  flinders^ 

If  this  blue-eyed  darlin*  kicks  at  yoUy  you  die!" 


THE  UNDERTAKER'S  HORSE  165 

Stardust  on  his  chaps  and  saddle, 

Scornful  still  of  jar  and  jolt, 
He'll  come  back  some  day,  a-straddle 

Of  a  bald-faced  thunderbolt. 
And  the  thin-skinned  generation 

Of  that  dim  and  distant  day- 
Sure  will  stare  with  admiration 

When  they  hear  old  Boastful  say:  — 

"  /  was  first,  as  old  rawhiders  all  confessed. 
Now  Pm  last  of  all  rough-riders,  and  the  best.  , 
Huh!  you  soft  and  dainty  floaters, 
With  your  aeroplanes  and  motors  — 
Huh!  are  you  the  great  grandchildren  of  the 
Westr' 

Badger  Clark 


THE  UNDERTAKER'S  HORSE 

The  eldest  son  bestrides  him. 

And  the  pretty  daughter  rides  him. 

And  I  meet  him  oft  o'  mornings  on  the  Course ; 

And  there  kindles  in  my  bosom 

An  emotion  chill  and  gruesome 

As  I  canter  past  the  Undertaker's  Horse. 

Neither  shies  he  nor  is  restive, 
But  a  hideously  suggestive 
Trot,  professional  and  placid,  he  affects; 
And  the  cadence  of  his  hoof-beats 
To  my  mind  this  grim  reproof  beats;  — 
"  Mend  your  pace,  my  friend,  I'm  coming.  Who's 
the  next?" 


i66  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Ah !  stud-bred  of  ill-omen, 

I  have  watched  the  strongest  go  —  men 

Of  pith  and  might  and  muscle  —  at  your  heels, 

Down  the  plantain-bordered  highway, 

(Heaven  send  it  ne'er  by  my  way!) 

In  a  lacquered  box  and  jetty  upon  wheels. 

Answer,  sombre  beast  and  dreary. 
Where  is  Brown,  the  young,  the  cheery, 
Smith,  the  pride  of  all  his  friends  and  half  the 

Force? 
You  were  at  that  last  dread  dak 
We  must  cover  at  a  walk. 
Bring  them  back  to  me,  O  Undertaker's  Horse ! 

With  your  mane  unhogged  and  flowing, 

And  your  curious  way  of  going. 

And  that  businesshke  black  crimping  of  yoar 

tail. 
E'en  with  Beauty  on  your  back,  Sir, 
Pacing  as  a  lady's  hack.  Sir, 
What  wonder  when  I  meet  you  I  turn  pale? 

It  may  be  you  wait  your  time,  Beast, 

Till  I  write  my  last  bad  rhyme,  Beast  — 

Quit  the   sunUght,  cut  the  rhyming,  drop  the 

glass  — 
Follow  after  with  the  others. 
Where  some  dusky  heathen  smothers 
Us  with  marigolds  in  Heu  of  English  grass. 

Or,  perchance,  in  years  to  follow, 

I  shall  watch  your  plump  sides  hollow, 


THE  COCHERO  AND  THE  HORSE     167 

See  Carnifex  (gone  lame)  become  a  corse  — 

See  old  age  at  last  o'erpower  you, 

And  the  Station  Pack  devour  you, 

I  shall  chuckle  then,  O  Undertaker's  Horse ! 

But  to  insult,  jibe,  and  quest,  I  've 
Still  the  hideously  suggestive 
Trot  that  hammers  out  the  unrelenting  text, 
And  I  hear  it  hard  behind  me 
In  what  place  soe'er  I  find  me :  — 
**  Sure  to  catch  you  sooner  or  later.  Who's  the 
next?" 

Rudyard  Kipling 


THE  COCHERO  AND  THE  HORSE 

Every  country  has  its  troubles 

Which  affect  the  human  tribe; 
Over  here  they  come  in  doubles. 

Like  the  donor  and  the  bribe; 
Take  the  Philippine  cochero 

With  his  Filipino  horse. 
They're  enough  to  drive  a  deacon 

To  bad  liquor  and  remorse. 

Did  you  ever  see  an  hombre 

With  a  sad  seraphic  face 
On  a  one-hoss  shay  calesa. 

Ambling  at  a  backward  pace? 
Did  you  ever  wave  him  from  you  — 

Did  he  ever  stop?  —  Perhaps, 
If  he's  finished  his  siesta. 

Or  incurred  a  mental  lapse. 


i68  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Did  he  sport  a  nether  garment 

Of  a  weird  chromatic  hue, 
And  a  dinky  old  sombrero? 

And  perhaps  he  did  n't  chew 
Betel-nut  and  plug  tobacco? 

Ever  see  the  mixture  ooze 
From  his  classic  coral  liplets, 

Flavored  by  the  rankest  booze? 

Did  you  ever  tell  him,  "  Siggy!  ^ 

Or  I'll  break  your  bloomin'  head!" 
Did  he  ever  swear  by  all  the 

Saints,  "  My  horse  is  almost  dead"? 
Was  the  wicked  old  caballo 

Ever  more  than  half  alive? 
Did  he  ever  take  a  sudden 

Think  and  make  a  fancy  dive? 

Did  you  ever  start  for  Greenland, 

And  wind  up  at  the  South  Pole? 
Did  you  ever  take  the  bearings 

Of  a  new-made  six-foot  hole? 
Did  you  ever  bump  a  street  car? 

Did  you  ever  stop  a  train? 
Did  you  ever  test  the  soundness 

Of  a  cast-steel  water  main? 

Did  you  ever  "  bump  the  bumpers"? 

Ever  ride  a  comet's  tail? 
Ever  go  up  in  an  airship? 

Have  you  ever  raced  a  snail? 

1  Hurry. 


THE  COCHERO  AND  THE  HORSE  169 

If  you  have,  you've  got  a  notion, 

Only  'proximate,  of  course, 
Of  the  even,  easy  motion 

Of  a  FiUpino  horse. 

And  the  dear  old  kind  cochero  I 

How  he  loves  his  little  plug !  — 
How  he  strokes  him  with  his  whip-lash 

'S  if  he  were  a  dusty  rug ! 
But  the  crafty  old  caballo 

With  his  horse-sense  gone  astray 
Wreaks  his  righteous,  deep  resentment, 

On  the  dash-board,  day  by  day. 


Now  the  Philippine  cochero 

May  be  human,  —  I  don't  know; 
And  his  horse  may  be  a  "  critter," 

I  have  heard  it  stated  so; 
But  from  all  my  first-hand  knowledge, 

I  am  free  to  state,  at  least, 
It  would  take  a  modern  Solon 

To  distinguish  man  and  beast. 


Oh,  this  world  is  full  of  grafters, 

Green-goods  men  and  common  crooks. 
Trouble-makers,  nature-fakirs, 

Ananiases  and  Cooks; 
Take  them  one  by  one  and  roll  them 

Into  one  Satanic  whole. 
And  you'll  get  the  triple  essence 

Of  a  brown  cochero's  soul. 


170  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Some  day  when  I'm  old  and  feeble, 

And  the  end  is  drawing  nigh, 
Chances  are  I  *11  have  my  scruples 

'Bout  the  near  Sweet  Bye  and  Bye; 
Then  I  '11  call  an  old  cochero 

On  the  street,  and  softly  say, 
"  Siggy!  for  the  Lower  Regions,"  — 

And,  —  he  '11  head  the  other  way, 

Norbert  Lyons 


BOLTS 

I've  a  head  like  a  violin-case;  I've  a  jaw  like  a 
piece  of  steel; 

I've  a  mouth  Uke  india-rubber,  and  devil-a-bit  I 
feel; 

But  I  've  had  my  fun  with  a  biped  thing  that  clam- 
bered upon  my  back. 

And  I'm  "  in  at  the  death,"  though  I'm  panting  for 
breath,  right  bang  in  the  midst  of  the  pack. 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top. 

That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day. 
It's  a  moment  for  me  to  be  off  for  a  spree 

In  a  new  and  original  way, 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 

Oats !  but  my  spirits  were  gay ! 
When  I  bet  my  bit  that  my  rider  would  sit 

Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 

I  started  a  gentle  canter,  I  felt  him  bob  about; 
His  spurs  went  in,  and  the  roots  of  sin,  they  whipped 
my  hind  legs  out. 


BOLTS  171 


He  put  his  arms  around  my  neck,  'twas  kindly 

meant,  I  swear 
But  he  had  no  call  to  spoil  it  all  by  pulling  out  half 

my  hair. 

He  left  his  hat  in  a  puddle,  he  left  his  whip  on  a 

gate, 
The  briars  know  where,  but  I  don't  care,  the  bits  of 

his  tunic  wait; 
He  bade  me  stay,  I  raced  away,  to  the  sound  of  the 

huntsman's  horn. 
And  at  last  I  laid  him  gently  in  the  arms  of  a  bold 

blackthorn. 

The  whip  waits  safe  in  the  harness-room,  the  groom 

in  the  stable  yard. 
It's  not  that  I  mind  a  tanning  —  my  hide's  grown 

far  too  hard  — 
But  that  tied  to  a  fly  I'm  safe  to  die,  and  on  chaff 

and  straw  abstain. 
For  as  sure  as  I  snort,  if  they  give  me  this  sort,  of 

course  I  shall  do  it  again. 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top, 

That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day. 
It's  the  moment  for  me  to  be  off  for  a  spree 

In  a  new  and  original  way, 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 

Oats !  but  my  spirits  were  gay ! 
When  I  bet  my  bit  that  my  rider  would  sit 

Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 

Anonymous 


172  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  HORSE 

Every  little  while  they  tell  us  that  the  horse  has  got 

to  go; 
First  the  trolley  was  invented  because  he  went  so 

slow, 
And  they  told  us  that  we'd  better  not  keep  raisin* 

colts  no  more. 
When  the  street-cars  came  to  moting  that  the 

horses  pulled  before, 
I  thought  it  was  all  over  for  old  Fan  and  Doll  and 

Kit, 
S'posed  the  horse  was  up  and  done  for  —  but,  he 

ain't  went  yit  I 

When  the  bike  craze  first  got  started  people  told  us 
right  away, 

As  you  probably  remember,  that  the  horse  had  saw 
his  day. 

People  put  away  their  buggies  and  went  kitin' 
'round  on  wheels; 

There  were  lots  and  lots  of  horses  did  n't  even  earn 
their  meals. 

I  used  to  stand  and  watch 'em  with  their  bloom- 
ers as  they'd  flit, 

And  I  thought  the  horse  was  goin'  —  but,  he  ain't 
went  yit ! 

Then  they  got  the  horseless  carriage,  and  they  said 

the  horse  was  done. 
And  the  story's  been  repeated  twenty  times  by 

Edison ; 


SUNDAY  TALK  IN  THE  HORSE  SHEDS     173 

Every  time  he  gits  another  of  his  batteries  to  go 
He  comes  whoopin'  out  to  tell  us  that  the  horse 

don't  stand  no  show. 
And  you'd  think  to  see  these  chauffers,  as  they 

go  a-chaufEn',  it 
Was  good-bye  to  Mr.  Dobbin  —  but,  he  ain't  went 

yit! 

When  the  people  git  to  flying  in  the  air  I  s'pose 

they'll  say, 
As  we  long  have  been  a-sayin'  that  the  horse  has 

had  his  day. 
And  I  s'pose  that  some  old  feller  just  about  like 

me '11  stand 
Where  it 's  safe,  and  watch  the  horses  haulin'  stuff 

across  the  land; 
And  he'll  mebby  think  as  I  do,  while  the  crows 

above  him  flit, 
"  Oh,  they  say  the  horse  is  done  for,  —  but,  he 

ain't  went  yitl" 

S.  E.  Kiser 

SUNDAY  TALK  IN  THE  HORSE  SHEDS 

(OLD  GRAY  COMMENTS  ON  THE  SERVICE  TO  HIS 

MATE) 

My  shoulders  ache,  and  my  knees  are  stiff,  and  it 

makes  me  want  to  fight 
When  I  hear  'em  sing,  "  O  Day  of  Rest !  O  Day  of 

Joy  and  Light!" 
For  we  started  late,  and  to  get  there  soon  we  had  to 

trot  our  best; 
"^Welcome,"  —  now  hear  'em,  —  "  delightful  morn, 

sweet  day  of  sacred  rest!" 


174  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Now  Parson's  readin'  the  Scripture:  "  Remember 

the  Sabbath  day  — 
In  it  thou  shalt  not  do  any  work'*  —  "  Amen,"  the 

people  say; 
"  Thou,  nor  thy  son,  nor  thy  daughter,  thy  cattle, 

thy  ox,  nor  thy  ass"  — 
Don't  seem  to  exempt  the  horses,  eh?  So  we '11  let 

the  lesson  pass. 


Can't  you  step  over  a  little?  The  sun  comes  in  this 

side  — 
And  it  don't  say  a  word  about  the  wife,  I  reckon 

that's  why  they  decide 
That  Sunday's  a  day  of  rest  on  the  farm  from  the 

labors  of  every-day  life 
For  everything  that  the  Lord  hath  made  —  except 

the  horses  and  wife. 


"  A  righteous  man  regardeth  the  life  of  his  beast" 

—  I'd  smile 
At  the  parson's  text,  but  if  I  did  they  'd  hear  me  for 

a  mile ; 
For  I  trotted  the  last  ten  minutes  lame  —  I  'd 

picked  up  a  hard,  sharp  stone. 
An'  could  hear  the  old  man  growlin'  because  his 

seat  was  **  hard  as  a  bone." 


"  Could  I  but  climb  where  Moses  stood"  —  but  the 

half  of  them  would  n't  climb ; 
They'd  pile  in  the  wagon  full's  'twould  hold  an' 

ride  up  every  time ; 


SUNDAY  TALK  IN  THE  HORSE  SHEDS     175 

If  they  had  to  walk  they  'd  do 's  they  did  when  your 

pastern  joint  was  sprained  — 
They'd  say  'twas  too  fur,  an'  stay  at  home,  like 

they  did  the  times  it  rained. 

I'm  goin'  to  write  a  hymn  some  day,  an'  we'll  sing 

it  out  in  the  sheds  — 
"  Welcome,  deUghtful  morn  that  pours  the  rain 

upon  our  heads ; 
Welcome  the  slush,  the  snow  that  drifts,  the  mud 

that  irritates. 
The  storms  that  bring  a  Sabbath  rest  to  the  cattle 

within  the  gates." 

Hip  voice  was  hushed,  for  the  notes  of  song  rose  on 
the  hallowed  air  — 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow"  — 
thanksgiving,  praise  and  prayer; 

"Praise  him  all  creatures  here  below" — man, 
beast,  and  bird  and  thing  — 

With  the  possible  exception  of  the  farmer's  wife 
who,  having  remained  at  home  to  prepare  a 
dinner  of  chicken  soup,  roast  beef,  beets, 
onions,  roasting  ears,  salad,  pudding,  two 
kinds  of  pie,  and  fruit  for  her  husband,  three 
sons,  four  daughters,  the  pastor,  his  wife  and 
two  children,  the  district  secretary  of  the 
Home  Mission  Society,  a  distant  relative 
from  the  city  come  out  to  spend  the  day,  and 
two  hired  men  —  had  very  little  time,  and 
not  much  breath,  and  possibly  not  an  ever- 
lasting, superabundant  inclination  to  sing. 
Robert  J.  Burdette 


176  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET 

'T  was  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 

The  betting  men  were  gathered  'round 

From  far  and  near;  the  "  cracks"  were  there 

Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare: 

The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 

The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeiffer's  brag, 

With  these  a  third  —  and  who  is  he 

That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.? 

Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 

So  fills  the  nasal  trimip  of  fame. 

There  too  stood  many  a  noted  steed 

Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed; 

Green  horses  also,  not  a  few; 

Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do; 

And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 

The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day; 

The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May; 

The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 

On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan; 

The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh; 

Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play. 

And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 

Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins; 

Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about. 

And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turnout: 

Here  stands  —  each  youthful  Jehu's  dream  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team ! 

And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 

The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand ; 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET     177 

On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles; 
(The  style's  the  man,  so  books  avow; 
The  style's  the  woman,  anyhow); 
From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 
Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 
Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye. 
Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye,  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these ! 

"  Come  on!  I'll  bet  you  two  to  one 

I'll  make  him  do  it!"  "  Will  you?  Done!" 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do? 

1  did  not  hear,  and  can't  tell  you,  — 
Pray  Usten  till  my  story's  through. 
Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest. 
By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 
The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay 

Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay  — 
Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day; 
(A  funeral  —  so  the  sexton  said ; 
His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead). 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives'  feast. 

So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast; 

His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 

The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair; 

Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not; 

And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 

Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town. 

Till  something  cracked  and  broke  him  down,  — 


178  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  steed's,  the  statesman's,  common  lot! 
"  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot?" 
Ah  me !  I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  "  Old  Blue," 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse ! "  Alas !  he  showed 

Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode; 

Scant-maned,  sharp-backed,  and  shaky-kneed, 

The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed, 

Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints; 

Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 

The  sexton,  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 

As  if  't  were  all  a  make-believe, 

Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 

Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a  shaft. 

Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 

Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth. 

Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 

From  strap  and  rein  —  a  sight  to  see ! 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 
It  can't  be  they  are  saddling  him ! 
It  is !  His  back  the  pig-skin  strides 
And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth; 
With  horsey  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A  yoimgster  throws  his  leg  across. 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 
They  lead  liim,  Umping,  to  the  track. 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 
To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET     179 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 
One  pitying  look  old  Hiram  cast; 
"  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can ! " 
Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan; 
**  A  Fast-Day  dinner  for  the  crows!" 
Budd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 

First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam. 

With  warning  cough  and  threatening  wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees; 

At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate. 

As  if  he  dragged  a  coach  of  state ; 

He's  not  a  colt;  he  knows  full  well 

That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell; 

No  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 

The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand, 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait. 
And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  like  a  stride. 

" Go!"  — Through  his  ear  the  summons  stung 

As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung; 

The  slumbering  instincts  long  unstirred 

Start  at  the  old  familiar  word ; 

It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb,  — 

What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him? 

The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 

Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt; 


i8o  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 
Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side; 
Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 
He  steps  a  five-year-old  again ! 


» 


Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 

Old  Hiram  said,  "  He's  going  fast. 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 

The  chuckUng  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh; 

Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung 

As  in  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track. 

His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 

Behind  him  Uke  a  rat- tail  file!  / 

Off  went  a  shoe,  —  away  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 

From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear; 

He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein. 

He  clutches  fiercely  for  a  mane; 

He'll  lose  his  hold  —  he  sways  and  reels  — • 

He'll  slide  beneath  those  trampUng  heels! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake, 

The  flowers  of  many  a  bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 

"  Stick  on!  stick  on!"  "  Hould  tight!  hould  tight!" 

*'  Cling  round  his  neck  and  don't  let  go  — 

That  pace  can't  hold  —  there!  steady!  whoa!" 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 

The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 

His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire. 

No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire ; 


I 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  V/ON  THE  BET     i8i 

And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by, 
And  "  Stop  him!  —  stop  him!"  is  the  cry. 
Stand  back!  he's  only  just  begun  — • 
He's  having  out  three  heats  in  one! 

"  Don't  rush  in  front !  he'll  smash  your  brains; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins!" 

Old  Hiram  spoke.  Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 

And  sprang,  impatient,  at  the  word ; 

Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay. 

Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray. 

And  off  they  spring,  and  round  they  go, 

The  fast  ones  doing  "  all  they  know." 

Look !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels. 

As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 

And  whirls  with  him  that  cUnging  boy 

Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy; 

Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round ! 

They're  tailing  off!  they're  losing  ground! 

Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail! 

Dan  Pf eiff er's  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 

And  see !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 

Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out ! 

Now  for  the  finish !  at  the  turn. 

The  old  horse  —  all  the  rest  astern  — 

Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot; 

By  Jove!  he's  distanced  all  the  lot! 

That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain ; 
Some  said,  "  Old  Dutchman  come  again!" 
Some  took  his  time,  —  at  least  they  tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide ; 
One  said  he  could  n't  understand 
What  happened  to  his  second-hand; 


i82  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

One  said  2:10;  that  could  n't  be  — 

More  like  two  twenty-two  or  three; 

Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last; 

"  The  time  was  two  —  too  dee-vel-ish  fast!" 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet; 

It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat; 

Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went. 

The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 

And  murmured,  with  a  mild  surprise 

And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 

"  That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 

Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick; 

I  should  n't  wonder,  I  declare, 

If  Brother  —  Jehu  —  made  the  prayer !  '* 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 
About  that  tough  old  trotting  bay, 
Huddup!  Huddup!  G'lang!  Good  day! 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told: 
A  horse  can  trot,  for  all  he 's  old. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  RACE 

The  ambulance  stood  near  the  paddock  gate, 
The  stretcher  was  close  at  hand. 

And  murmurs  and  squeals  of  hysterical  dames 
Came  down  from  the  crowded  stand. 

And  Dr.  Squibbs  said  to  Dr.  Squabbs: 
"  There'll  be  practice  enough  for  two  — 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  RACE     183 

I'll  take  the  legs  and  the  busted  skulls, 
The  collar-bones  go  for  you." 

The  gamesters  down  in  the  slaughtering-pen 

Looked  leery  and  woebegone, 
And  some  of  the  penciilers  turned  their  slates, 

For  the  hospital  race  was  on. 

The  program  called  it  a  steeplechase  — 

That  is  the  conventional  name  — 
But  we  can  call  it  whatever  we  please  — 

The  odor  is  just  the  same. 

This  one  was  rehearsed  the  night  before, 

In  a  small  back  room  somewhere. 
And  'twas  settled  that  Smiley  should  wait  on 
BUnk 

And  that  Peeler  go  out  for  the  air. 

*T  was  also  agreed  that  The  Bat  go  wide 

Of  the  flags  on  the  far-off  bend; 
That  Bourbon  should  balk  at  the  water  jump. 

And  that  Guzzle  turn  end  for  end. 
*     *     * 

There  was  one  who  was  n't  extended  a  bid 
When  the  caucus  was  held  that  night  — • 

An  unfortunate  fellow  called  Famishing  Flynn, 
The  owner  of  Mike-the-Bite. 

Now,  Mike-the-Bite  was  a  maiden  coy. 
Though  he'd  raced  three  years  on  the  fiat; 

"  I'll  put  him  to  jumping,"  said  Flynn  one  day; 
"  Perhaps  he'll  be  good  at  that. 


i84  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

**  He 's  jumped  the  barrier  once  or  twice  — 

Just  look  it  up  in  the  guide  — 
And  as  for  jumping  a  feedman's  bill  — 

Why,  he  takes  that  in  his  stride !'' 

Mike  was  the  champion  no-account 

In  everyone's  eyes  but  Flynn's, 
But  he  was  "  consistent,"  and  that  in  a  horse 

Atones  for  a  heap  of  sins. 

Flynn  coddled  him  through  all  manner  of  ills 

Of  liver  and  lungs  and  limb ; 
When  equine  diseases  were  flying  about, 

Mike  got  what  was  coming  to  him: 

Quarter-cracks,  spavins  and  splints  and  botts 

And  several  more  he'd  had; 
Then  he  caught  lung  fever,  which  left  his  pipes 

Some  more  than  a  bit  to  the  bad. 

He  was  nerved  behind,  he  was  fired  in  front 
From  his  pastern-joints,  to  his  knees; 

No  wonder  the  "  talent"  regarded  him 
As  a  putrefied  piece  of  cheese. 
*     *     * 

A  scullion  called  Mose  was  given  the  mount  j 

On  the  horse  with  the  gangrened  legs.  I 

Mose  was  n't  a  lot  at  the  horseback  act, 
But  an  artist  at  frying  eggs. 


It  took  four  fingers  of  kill-me-quick 
To  put  him  on  proper  edge; 

With  that  in  his  hold,  a  five-bar  gate 
Was  the  same  as  a  two-foot  hedge. 


{ 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  RACE     185 

While  the  horses  walked  in  the  paddock  yard, 

Awaiting  the  saddling  call, 
Flynn  hooked  his  flipper  in  Mose's  arm 

And  led  him  within  the  stall. 

"  Mose,  there  is  something  doing  here," 

He  said  in  his  softest  tones; 
"  The  thing  is  framed  up  for  BUnk  to  win  — 

I  'm  feeling  it  in  my  bones. 

"  Opening  up  at  eight  to  one, 

They  have  backed  her  clean  out  of  sight. 
And  everything  looks  Uke  a  corpse  to  her 

But  Slasher  and  Mike-the-Bite. 

"  I  saw  them  setting  it  in  in  chunks  — 
She's  backed  to  a  fare-you-well. 

And  there  was  n't  a  cent  in  the  ring  for  her 
Last  Saturday  when  she  fell ! 

"  And  never  a  word  did  they  say  to  me  — 
Oh,  no !  to  the  dump  with  Flynn ! 

For  they  did  n't  figure  Old  Mike  a  chance  — 
They  did  n't  have  him  to  skin. 

**  Mike-the-Bite  was  a  joke  to  them, 

And  Slasher  was  only  a  lob. 
Oh,  I'd  give  three  fingers  from  my  right  hand 

If  we  could  upset  the  job ! 

"  Now,  listen,  Mose:  We  can  do  it,  too  — 

The  question  is  up  to  you. 
You  can  run  it  out  on  that  crooked  bunch, 

If  you  do  what  I  tell  you  to  do. 


i86  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

*'  As  a  jumping  jock  you  are  rotten,  Mose  — 

In  putting  you  up  Pm  a  jay ; 
For  you  could  n't  ride  in  a  Burton  car, 

Strapped  down  to  a  bale  of  hay. 

"  The  horse  is  good.  For  once  I  think 

I've  got  him  in  perfect  trim; 
He  will  run  every  inch  if  his  nigh  foreleg 

Does  n't  get  too  hot  for  him. 

"  Moreover,  Mose,  I  have  slipped  him  a  charge 
That  would  blow  up  a  national  bank, 

And  when  it  gets  working  for  all  it's  worth 
You  may  find  him  a  trifle  rank. 

"  Just  take  a  good  tight  hold  of  his  head, 

And  keep  him  within  the  flags. 
And  draw  your  skillet  and  bust  his  slats 

If  you  find  that  he  loafs  or  lags. 

'*  When  the  pill  goes  off,  which  I  think  it  will 
'Bout  the  second  turn  of  the  course. 

You  take  a  good  hold  with  your  hands  and  teeth, 
For  then  he'll  be  Hawkins'  horse. 

*'  He's  as  good  as  one  hundred  to  one  to  win. 

(A  funny  guy  making  a  book 
Says  that  means  twenty  to  one,  the  horse 

And  eighty  to  one,  the  cook.) 

"  I've  made  an  agent  from  up  the  pike 

Dig  down  in  his  moldy  hoard 
And  bet  six  hundred  straight,  place  and  show  ^ 

Two  hundred  across  the  board. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  RACE     187 

**  There  goes  the  bugle!  Remember,  Mose! 

The  ticket  is  in  your  boot. 
You  keep  him  standing  and  keep  him  straight  — 

I'll  get  on  the  fence  and  root." 

The  cavalcade  filed  through  the  paddock  gate 

And  steered  for  the  lower  turn, 
With  a  ragged  collection  of  silks  aloft 

And  the  odor  of  drugs  astern. 

Never,  I  ween,  was  a  tougher  lot, 

Surmounted  by  coons  and  turks, 
Stopped  on  the  straight  and  narrow  path 

That  leads  to  the  glucose  works. 

A  ribald  shout  or  a  mocking  cheer 

Saluted  each  equine  vag 
And  each  boy  thereon  as  the  bunch  went  by 

On  the  way  to  the  man  with  the  flag. 

*     *     * 

**  Line  up  now,  line  up  now ! "  the  starter  cried, 
"  Or  I'll  put  you  all  on  the  ground! 

Jones,  what  are  you  doing  with  Peeler,  there? 
Why  don't  you  turn  him  around? 

_"  Now,  look  at  that  guinea  on  Thompson's  mare, 
And  that  lobster  aboard  of  The  Rat ! 

Say,  Hogan,  get  straight  with  that  goat  of  yours. 
Or  it's  you  and  me  to  the  mat! 

"  Could  n't  help  it,  eh?  Oh,  you  come  off  — 
Don't  give  me  that  old  bull  con! 


i88  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Now,  steady,  there,  steady !  Whoa  up,  whoa  up ! 
Come  on  there,  come  on!  Go  on! " 

*     *     * 

'Way  back  in  the  dope  of  a  day  long  dead, 

Which  haply  you  have  forgot. 
You'll  find  the  tale  of  this  steeplechase 

In  figures  and  notes  —  and  rot. 

The  record  shows  that  a  horse  "  ran  out," 
And  that  others  "  refused"  or  "  fell." 

The  dope  nails  down  all  the  callous  facts, 
But  it  does  n't  record  the  smell. 

It  does  n't  show  when  the  pill  went  off 

In  the  carcass  of  Mike-the-Bite, 
And  it  does  n't  bring  Chef  Mose  out  strong 

In  the  glare  of  heroic  light. 

It  does  n't  record  the  shudders  and  thrills 
That  swept  through  the  frenzied  mob, 

Nor  gives  it  a  hint  of  the  deep  chagrin 
Of  the  fellows  who  framed  the  job. 

However,  it  shows  that  Old  Mike  came  down 

Like  the  White  Ghost  on  a  tear, 
And  caught  Blink  tired  at  the  water  jimip 

And  passed  her  out  in  the  air. 

It  says  in  a  note:  "The  cook  shook  loose. 
But  himg  till  the  line  was  passed," 

And  leaves  me  to  tell  you  that  Famishing  Flynn 
Was  square  with  the  world  at  last. 

Hugh  Edmund  Keough  — '' Hek'\ 


THE  HORSE  OF  PETE  LAREAU   189 


THE  HORSE  OF  PETE  LAREAU 

Sacre !  you  laugh  ma  ol'  Paree? 

You  t'ink  she's  sick  to  kill! 
Dees  hoss  make  leetle  sad,  may  be  — • 

But  sick?  —  no  more  as  Bill! 

I  tell  you  'bout  dees  horse,  ma  boy: 

I  feed  him  twenty  year; 
She  be  ma  frien',  ma  Ufe,  ma  joy! 

I  kill  him  now?  —  Dat's  queer! 

I  tak'  Paree  to  circus  t'ing 

'Bout  fifteen  year  ago; 
Dare  be  free  acre  in  de  ring, 

An'  plenty  hoss  to  show. 

I  heech  him  in  de  sulky  dere 

An'  pat  him  on  de  head  — 
"  Dey's  plenty  competition  here; 

Now  show  you  don't  be  dead!" 

I  tak'  de  rein  an'  hoi'  him  tight, 

An'  wait  de  signal  gun; 
De  "pistol  shoot!  Ma  hoss  step  light! 

Sacre !  but  how  she  run ! 

Den  all  de  hoss  spread  out  dere  nose, 
De  spark  fiy  from  de  stone! 

No  odair  hoss  go  fast  like  dose  — 
'Cept  dees,  ma.  jolie  roan! 


igo  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Ma  boss  he  keep  de  inside  track, 
An*  make  dat  cirkees  short; 

In  just  free  mineet  she  be  back, 
An'  Paree  hoi'  de  fort ! 

An'  den  I'm  have  one  odair  try. 

I  speak  to  him  some  more  — 
"  If  you  be  beat,  mon  cher,  I  cry; 

It  make  my  spirit  sore." 

I  rub  hees  leg  down  wid  de  sponge, 

An'  tak'  de  rein  ma  ban' ; 
She  hear  de  gun,  she  make  one  lunge  I 

You  t'ink  she  understan'. 

She  go  I  She  go !  wid  hundaird  feet ! 

Hees  mane  whip  lak  de  flag ! 
She  mak'  dat  cirkees  —  two  mineet !  — 

Behin'  one  odair  nag. 

She  feel  dam  sorry,  dat  Paree ! 

He  hoi'  hees  head  in  shame, 
An'  shet  hees  eye  so  he  don't  see 

Dat  Jail  go  'gainst  hees  name. 

Den  I  say,  "  Don't  you  mind,  Paree  — 
You  don't  be  all  to  blame; 

You  win  de  nex'  one,  sure,  for  me  — • 
An'  dere  we  have  de  game!" 

An'  den  I  see  dat  horse  wake  up. 
An'  know  she  say  "  I  will!" 

I  geeve  him  drink,  I  take  one  cup  — 
To  show  we  be  frien'  still; 


THE  HORSE  OF  PETE  LAREAU        191 

I  sponge  his  leg;  I  smood  his  hair; 

I  tak'  ma  seat  behin'. 
She  tremble  lak  de  leaf,  wid  fear! 

An'  I  be  'fraid  dat  sign! 

I  hoP  de  line;  I  wait  de  shot; 

I  say,  "  Be  brave,  ma  boy!" 
But  dees  dam  horse !  I  guess  I  got 

One  bass-wood  duck  decoy ! 

But  dere's  de  gun!  an*  here's  de  gale! 

Dees  boss  come  out  his  grave ! 
She  tak'  de  air!  he's  mad!  he  sail, 

Lak  sea-gull  on  de  wave ! 

No  frog  be  scare  can  jump  lak  dat ! 

No  fish  can  cut  de  sea. 
So  fas'  she  go!  I  lose  ma  hat; 

But  I  say,  "  Go!  Paree!" 

She  go  lak  blin' !  She  hear  no  soun' 

Aftair  she  hear  dat  gun. 
She  make  free  acre  —  all  way  'roim  — 

Gee  Cry!  —  jus'  half  past  one! 

Now  what  you  t'ink  'bout  dat,  ma  men? 

T'rough  all  dese  twenty  year 
She  be  ma  pal,  ma  pride,  ma  frien' ! 

I  keel  heem  now?  Dat's  queer! 

Ivan  Swift 


THE  HORSE  IN  WAR 


SUNLIGHT 

Sunlight,  a  colt  from  the  ranges,  glossy  and  gentle 
and  strong, 
Dazed  by  the  multiple  thunder  of  wheels  and  the 
thrust  of  the  sea, 
Fretted  and  chafed  at  the  changes  —  ah,  but  the 
journey  was  long ! 
Officer's    charger  —  a    wonder — pick    of    the 
stables  was  he. 

Flutter  of  flags  in  the  harbor ;  rumble  of  guns  in  the 
street; 
England !  and  rhythm  of  marcliing ;  mist  and  the 
swing  of  the  tide ; 
France   and   an   Orifiamme   arbor  of  lilies   that 
drooped  in  the  heat; 
Sunlight,  with  mighty  neck  arching,  flecked  with 
the  foam  of  his  pride ! 

Out  from  the  trenches  retreating,  weary  and  grimy 
and  worn, 
Lean  Uttle  men  paused  to  cheer  him,  turning  to 
pass  to  their  rest; 
Shrilled  him  a  pitiful  greeting,  mocking  the  promise 
of  morn 
With  hope  and  wild  laughter  to  hear  him  answer 
with  challenging  zest. 

Victory!  That  was  the  spirit!  Once  they  had  an- 
swered the  thrill; 
Toiled  at  the  guns  while  incessant  sang  that  in- 
visible, dread 


196  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Burden  of  death.  Ah,  to  hear  it,  merciless,  animate, 
shrill, 
Whining  aloft  in  a  crescent,  shattering  Uving  and 
dead  I 


And  Sunlight?  What  knew  he  of  battle?  Strange 
was  this  turmoil  and  haste. 
Why  should  he  flinch  at  the  firing ;  swerve  at  the 
mangled  and  slain? 
Where  was  the  range  and  the  cattle?  Here  was  but 
carnage  and  waste; 
Yet  with  a  patience  untiring  he  answered  to  spur 
and  to  rein. 


Answered,  when,  out  of  disorder,  rout,  and  the 
chaos  of  night, 
Came  the  command  to  his  master,  "  Cover  the 
Seventh's  retreat!'* 
On,  toward  the  fiame  of  the  border,  into  the  brxmt  of 
the  fight, 
Swept  that  wild  wind  of  disaster,  on  with  the  tide 
of  defeat. 


Softly  the  dawn-wind  awaking  fluttered  a  pennant 
that  fell 
Over  the  semblance  of  Sunlight,  stark  in  the 
pitiless  day; 
Riddled  and  slashed  by  the  bullets  sped  from  the 
pit  of  that  hell .  .  . 
Groaning,  his  master  beside  him,  patted  his  neck 
where  he  lay. 


TROOP  HORSES  197 

**  Sunlight,  it  was  n't   for    glory  .  .  .  England  .  . . 
or  France  ...  or  the  fame 
Of  victory  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  not  the  glowing  tribute  of 
history's  pen. 
Good-bye,  old  chap,  for  I'm  going  .  .  .  earned  it  .  .  . 
your  death  is  the  shame  .  .  . 
We  fought  for  the  world,  not  an  Island.  .  .  .  We 
fought  for  the  honor  of  men. .  .  . " 

So  we  have  sold  them  our  horses.  What  shall  we  do 
with  the  gold? 
Lay  it  on  Charity's  altar,  purchasing  columns  of 
praise? 
Noble  indeed  are  our  courses ;  running  the  race  as 
of  old ; 
But  why  should  we  Mammonites  falter?  Noble 
indeed  are  our  ways. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 

TROOP  HORSES 

Through  lingering  long  months  idle 

They  have  kept  you  ready  and  fit, 
All  shining  from  hock  to  bridle. 

All  burnished  from  hoof  to  bit; 
The  set  of  your  silk  coat's  beauty, 

The  light  of  its  lightest  hair, 
Was  an  anxious  trooper's  duty 

And  a  watchfxU  captain's  care. 

Not  the  keenest  eye  could  discover 

The  sign  of  the  sloth  on  you. 
From  the  last  mane-lock  laid  over 

To  the  nail  tight  in  the  shoe ; 


198  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

A  blast,  and  your  ranks  stood  ready ; 

A  shout,  and  your  saddles  filled ; 
A  wave,  and  your  troop  was  ready 

To  wheel  where  the  leaders  willed. 

"  Fine  drawn  and  fit  to  the  buckle !  '* 

Was  your  confident  Colonel's  pride. 
And  the  faith  of  the  lads  —  "  Our  luck '11 

Come  back  when  the  Spring  winds  ride"; 
And,  dropping  their  quaint  oaths  drolly, 

They  dragged  their  spurs  in  the  mire, 
Till  the  Western  Front  woke  slowly 

And  they  won  to  their  hearts'  desire. 

They  loose  you  now  to  the  labours 

That  the  needs  of  the  hour  reveal, 
And  you  carry  the  proud  old  sabres 

To  cross  with  a  tarnished  steel; 
So,  steady  —  and  keep  your  position  — 

And  stout  be  your  hearts  to-day, 
As  you  shoulder  the  old  tradition 

And  charge  in  the  ancient  way ! 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 

THE  HORSE 

The  man  who  goes  into  the  fight, 

With  the  heart  of  a  volunteer, 
Has  the  high  ideal  of  doing  right. 

To  conquer  his  pain  and  fear. 
And  the  man  who  is  forced  to  go, 

Has  his  pride,  and  his  will,  and  his  faith. 
To  help  him  over  the  road  of  woe 

To  the  goal  of  a  crutch,  or  death. 


THE  HORSE  199 


But  the  steed  that  is  dragged  from  his  stall, 

To  be  plunged  in  the  hell  of  war  ^ 
Why,  v/hat  does  he  know  of  the  country^s  call, 

Or  the  cause  he  is  suffering  for? 
And  I  tliink  when  he  lies  in  his  pain, 

Tortured  and  torn  by  the  fray, 
lie  must  long  for  the  touch  of  a  hand  on  his 
mane 

And  the  fields  where  he  used  to  play. 

The  world  as  we  see  it  now 

Is  only  half  man-made; 
As  the  horse  recedes  with  a  parting  bow, 

We  know  the  part  he  has  played. 
For  the  wonderful  brain  of  man, 

Hov/ever  mighty  its  force, 
Had  never  achieved  its  lordly  plan 

Without  the  aid  of  the  horse. 

The  forests  felled  by  hand, 

By  the  horse  were  carried  away; 
And  furrow  and  field  were  made  to  yield 

By  his  willing  toil  each  day. 
He  helped  bring  true  in  this  age 

The  visions  our  forebears  saw; 
And  oft  v/as  given  a  grudging  wage. 

Scant  fare  and  a  bunch  of  straw. 

The  horse  has  no  passion  to  kill. 
Like  man  and  the  tiger  and  bear; 

Yet  slave  of  a  murderous  will. 
To  the  front  of  the  fight  he  must  fare. 


200  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Now  the  heart  of  a  horse  has  love 
For  the  master  and  home  it  knew; 

And  the  mind  of  a  horse  can  prove 
That  memory  dwells  there,  too. 

Ohy  I  think  on  the  blood  red  sod 
Each  wounded  man  prays  to  God; 
And  I  think  from  the  heart  of  a  steed 
There  must  rise  in  his  hour  of  need 
A  cry  for  his  master  whOy  seems 
A  god  in  his  equine  dreams. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 


ON  ACTIVE  SERVICE 

Where's  glossy  Bess,  the  carmen's  mare? 

Where's  gentle  Prince,  the  children's  friend? 
Where's  Starlight,  fast  beyond  compare? 

And  Tiny  Tim  of  fiery  blend? 

Gone  to  fight  their  country's  battles, 

Gone  to  face  the  shot  and  shell, 
Days  of  toil  and  nights  of  hunger. 

Can  we  help,  who  loved  them  well? 

Where 's  soft-nosed  Jessie,  sugar  lover? 

Where's  handsome  Bobs,  my  lady's  hack? 
Where's  Punch,  the  Squire  rides  to  cover 

And  Misses'  trapper  Lively  Jack? 

Gone  to  fight  their  country's  battles, 

Gone  to  face  the  shot  and  shell 
Weary  waiting,  hours  of  torture. 

Can  we  help,  who  loved  them  well? 


A  DUMB  APPEAL  201 

Where  *s  sturdy  Joe,  who  hauls  the  coal? 

Where  's  ginger  Nell,  who  brings  the  bread? 
Where  's  Tommy,  petted  from  a  foal? 

And  Noma  of  the  Fitful  Head? 

Gone,  all  gone  on  Active  Service, 
Faithful  Servants,  friends  of  man. 

We  in  sheltered  homes  of  England, 
Let  us  send  the  help  we  can. 

Anonymous 


A  DUMB  APPEAL 
She  was  a  pretty,  nicely-mannered  mare 
The  children's  pet,  the  master's  pride  and  care, 
Until  a  man  in  khaki  came  one  day 
Looked  at  her  teeth,  and  hurried  her  away. 

With  other  horses  packed  into  a  train 
She  hungered  for  her  master's  voice  in  vain; 
And  later,  led  'twixt  planks  that  scare  and  slip 
They  slung  her,  terrified,  on  board  a  ship. 

Next  came,  where  thumps  and  throbbing  filled  the 

air. 
Her  first  experience  of  mal  de  mer; 
And  when  that  oscillating  trip  was  done 
They  hitched  her  up  in  traces  to  a  gun. 

She  worked  and  pulled  and  sweated  with  the  best; 
A  stranger  now  her  glossy  coat  caressed; 
Till  flashing  thunderstorms  came  bursting  round 
And  spitting  leaden  hail  bestrewed  the  groimd. 


202  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

With  quivering  limbs,  and  silky  ears  laid  back, 
She  feels  a  shock  succeed  a  sharper  crack, 
And  whinnying  her  pitiful  surprise. 
Staggers  and  falls,  and  tries  in  vain  to  rise. 

Alone,  forsaken,  on  a  foreign  field  — 
What  moral  does  this  little  record  yield? 
Who  tends  the  wounded  horses  in  the  war? 
Well  —  that  is  what  the  Blue  Cross  League  is 
for. 

Jessie  Pope 


A  PRAYER 

Thine  are  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 

So  saith  the  Word  Divine ; 
And  all  the  beasts  that  every  forest  fills, 

Each  one  is  Thine. 

But  Thou  hast  given  to  men  the  power 

To  capture  them  and  tame. 
To  use  them  for  their  service  hour  by  hour, 

Call  them  by  name. 

Some  of  Thy  creatures,  in  tliis  time  of  strife, 

Fight  side  by  side  v/ith  man; 
And  many  a  horse  and  dog  gives  up  his  life. 

Does  all  he  can. 

O  Thou  who  lovest  all  that  Thou  hast  made, 

Who  madest  great  and  small, 
Hear  us  Thy  servants,  who  are  not  afraid 

To  pray  for  all. 


THE  WAR-HORSE  BUYERS  203 

For  men  who  fight  we  pray  in  our  distress, 

'T  is  all  that  we  can  do : 
And  kneeling  down,  we  ask:  "  O  Father,  bless 

The  dumb  beasts  too!" 

C.  S.  Purves 


THE  WAR-HORSE  BUYERS 

Twenty  of  us  ridin*  bronks,  headed  for  the  war; 
Twenty  top-hand  saddlemen,  up  in  bustin'  lore; 
Off  the  ranges  fast  they  come,  bosses  black  and  gray, 
Hosses  roan  and  calico,  bosses  brown  and  bay; 
Saddle,  bridle,  cinch  and  ride  —  buck,  you  big 

boss,  buck ! 
You  will  be  the  captain's  choice  —  'bye,  old  nag  — 

good  luck  I 

*  Tiller  y  and  cavalry^  Uillery  and  cavalry^ 

That's  the  way  they  pick  'em  when  the  judges  are 

at  work; 
^ Tiller y  and  cavalry ^  ^ tiller y  and  cavalry ^ 
Farewell^  Western  mountain  hosSy  and  donU  you 

ever  shirk; 
Steel  and  lead  and  powder  smoke,  there  acrost  the 

way  — 
If  it  was  n^t  Pm  neutral  Vd  he  off  with  you  to-day. 

All  the  range  is  bein'  combed  of  the  strong  and  fit; 

Bring  more  in,  you  wrangler  men  —  let  'em  taste 
the  bit; 

Let  the  busters  show  each  pace,  'neath  the  cap- 
tain's eyes; 

Good-bye,  all  of  you  to-day,  to  these  Western  skies ; 


204  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Twice  around  the  ring  you  go  —  saddle  off  and  stand 
While  the  captain  tallies  you  for  the  fightin*  band. 

*  Tiller y  and  cavalry^  Cillery  and  cavalry y 

That's  the  way  they  pick  and  choose  for  the  game 
of  war; 

*  Tiller  y  and  cavalry  y  *  tiller  y  and  cavalry  y 

Little  difference  where  you  go  — fightin^  is  in  store; 
Little  difference  where  you  show  —  most  of  you 

must  die; 
Western  hosses,  do  your  best  —  good  luck,  and 

good-bye! 

Arthur  Chapman 


CONSCRIPTS 

On  a  smooth,  white  road  in  a  neutral  land, 
With  peaceful  homes  on  either  hand, 
A  column  of  conscripts,  a  patient  flock, 
Tread  slowly  down,  down  to  the  dock. 

With  halters  new,  of  twisted  rope, 
Bound  five  abreast,  no  choice,  no  hope  — 
One  needs  a  heart  of  flint-Uke  rock. 
To  watch  them  pass  —  down  to  the  dock. 

May  the  "  coming  events"  of  this  gruesome  war. 
Not  dare  to  "  cast  their  shadows  before"; 
May  their  innocent  minds  have  key  and  lock, 
To  shut  out,  why?  —  they  go  down  to  the  dock. 

Forward  they  go,  the  gang-plank  o'er. 
On  tossing  ship,  to  war-bound  shore ; 


A  CALL  TO  THE  COW  PONIES         205 

In  the  crowded  hold,  they  pitch  and  rock, 
Their  quivering  forms,  humanity  mock. 

And  after,  —  may  Fate's  great  over-lord, 
Ordain  they  meet  some  just  reward 
For  bearing  the  battle's  horrible  shock 
And  ship  them  to  a  celestial  dock. 

Anna  M.  Fielding 


A  CALL  TO  THE  COW  PONIES 

They  sent  us  from  Coorong  and  Cooper 

The  pick  of  the  Wallaby  Track 
To  serve  us  as  gunner  and  trooper, 

To  serve  us  as  charger  and  hack; 
From  Budgeribar  to  Blanchewater 

They  rifled  the  guns  of  the  West, 
That  whatever  his  fate  in  the  slaughter, 

A  man  might  ride  home  on  the  best. 

We  dealt  with  the  distant  Dominion, 

We  bought  in  the  far  Argentine ; 
The  worth  of  our  buyers'  opinion 

Is  proved  to  the  hilt  in  the  line ; 
The  Clydes  from  the  edge  of  the  heather. 

The  Shires  from  the  heart  of  the  grass. 
And  the  Punches  are  pulling  together 

The  gims  where  the  conquerors  pass. 

So  come  with  us,  buckskin  and  sorrel. 
And  come  with  us,  skewbald  and  bay; 

Your  country 's  girth-deep  in  the  quarrel, 
Your  honour  is  roped  to  the  fray; 


2o6  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Where  flanks  of  your  comrades  are  foaming 
'Neath  saddle  and  trace-chain  and  band, 

We  look  for  the  kings  of  Wj^oming 
To  speak  for  the  sage-brush  and  sand. 

Will  H,  Ogilvie 


"NUMBER  7" 

Behold  me,  bound  betvi^een  the  shafts, 

A  polo  mount  am  I, 
Bold,  bold,  to  run,  and  swift  to  wheel 

When  the  white  ball  whirls  by. 

The  whistling  ball  that  shoots  across 

The  purple  shadowed  grass. 
Ten  times  the  joy  that  the  marksman  thrills, 

We  surge  with  as  we  pass. 

We  gallop  here,  we  gallop  there, 

We  wheel  and  dart  and  run. 
Put  all  our  strength  in  every  length 

Until  the  goal  is  won  I 

My  mates  still  foot  the  flying  ball 
White  winged  across  the  green, 

On  their  hot  flanks  the  lowering  sim 
Strikes  with  a  crimson  sheen. 

They  go  before  me  down  the  lane 

(Ah!  but  the  shafts  are  sore!) 
Ready  and  dressed  to  face  the  test  — 
I  follow,  mate,  no  more. 


NUMBER  7  207 


I  draw  dried  hay  and  sea-weed  brown 

All  day  through  mist  and  sun, 
At  night  I  lie  on  salt  sea  grass 

And  dream  of  old  fields  won. 

They  say  I'm  lucky  to  be  here, 

Not  bound  to  pedlar's  cart  — 
What  matters  it,  if  I  'm  not  there  — 

Game  dearest  to  my  heart? 

Yet  ev'n  the  riders  that  ride  so  brave 

Some  day  will  ride  no  more, 
The  quick'ning  mist  will  take  them  all 

Deep  in  its  shrouded  shore. 

The  watery  creatures  of  the  marsh, 

The  just  tide's  ebb  and  flow. 
The  cawing  crows  and  the  calling  quail  — 

These  are  my  comrades  now. 

The  cawing  crows  and  the  yellow-legs 
Flaxmt  freedom  'round  my  head. 

Till  a  sniper's  rifle  brings  them  down, 
A  clump  of  feathers  —  dead. 

Man  by  his  craft  has  taken  me 

And  bound  me  to  his  state; 
What  he  cannot  bind  to  do  his  will, 

That  must  he  imitate. 

There's  a  giant  bird  that  flies  above 

And  dips  into  the  main; 
As  the  long-necked  sea-fowl  scream  and  rise, 

So  does  the  hydroplane. 


2o8  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

I  see  these  things  and  toss  my  mane, 

Grown  long,  a  shaggy  veil; ) 
The  Gray  Shape  calls  from  the  curling  mist  — 

But  that's  another  tale. 

Edith  Musgrave 


SIR  GILES'  WAR-SONG 

Ho!  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  GileSy  le  bon  des  barrieres? 


The  clink  of  arms  is  good  to  hear, 
The  flap  of  pennons  fair  to  see; 
Ho!  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  GileSy  le  bon  des  barrieres? 

The  leopards  and  lilies  are  fair  to  see, 
"  St.  George  Guienne"  right  good  to  hear; 
Ho!  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me. 
Sir  Giles f  le  bon  des  barrieres? 

1  stood  by  the  barrier, 
My  coat  being  blazon'd  fair  to  see; 
Ho!  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  Giles f  le  bon  des  barrieres? 

Clisson  put  out  his  head  to  see, 
And  lifted  his  basnet  up  to  hear; 
I  puU'd  him  through  the  bars  to  ME, 
Sir  GileSy  le  bon  des  barrieres. 

William  Morris 


SONG  OF  THE  CAVALIER  209 


SONG  OF  THE  CAVALIER 

A  steed !  a  steed !  of  matchless  speed  I 
A  sword  of  metal  keen ! 
All  else  to  noble  hearts  is  dross  — 
All  else  on  earth  is  mean. 

The  neighing  of  the  war-horse  proud, 
The  rolling  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  loud 
Be  sounds  from  heaven  that  come. 

And  oh !  the  thundering  press  of  knights 
When  as  their  war-cries  swell, 
May  toll  from  heaven  an  angel  bright 
And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mount !  then  moimt,  brave  gallants  all, 
And  don  your  helms  amain ; 
Death's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honour,  call 
Us  to  the  field  again. 

No  shrewish  tears  shall  fill  our  eye 
When  the  sword-hilt 's  in  our  hand.  — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sigh 
For  the  fairest  of  the  land ; 

Let  piping  swain  and  craven  wight 
Thus  weep  and  puling  cry, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 
And  hero-like  to  die  I 

William  Motherwell 


210  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


"BAY  BILLY" 

*T  was  the  last  fight  at  Fredericksburg  — 

Perhaps  the  day  you  reck  — 
Our  boys,  the  Twenty-second  Maine, 

Kept  Early's  men  in  check. 
Just  where  Wade  Hampton  boomed  away 

The  fight  went  neck  and  neck. 

All  day  we  held  the  weaker  v/ing, 

And  held  it  with  a  w^ill; 
Five  several  stubborn  times  we  charged 

The  battery  on  the  hill. 
And  five  times  beaten  back,  re-formed, 

And  kept  our  columns  still. 

At  last  from  out  the  center  fight 

Spurred  up  a  general's  aid. 
"  That  battery  must  silenced  be!". 

He  cried,  as  past  he  sped. 
Oiu:  colonel  simply  touched  his  cap, 

And  then,  with  measured  tread, 
To  lead  the  crouching  line  once  more 

The  grand  old  fellow  came. 
No  wounded  man  but  raised  his  head 

And  strove  to  gasp  his  name. 
And  those  who  could  not  speak  nor  stir 

"  God  blessed  him"  just  the  same. 

For  he  was  all  the  world  to  us, 

That  hero  gray  and  grim; 
Right  well  he  knew  that  fearful  slope 

We'd  climb  with  none  but  him, 


BAY  BILLY  211 


Though  while  his  white  head  led  the  way 
We  'd  charge  KelPs  portals  in. 

This  time  we  were  not  half-way  up, 
When,  'midst  the  storm  of  shell. 

Our  leader,  with  his  sword  upraised, 
Beneath  our  bay'nets  fell; 

And,  as  we  bore  him  back,  the  foe 
Set  up  a  joyous  yell. 

Our  hearts  went  v/ith  him.  Back  we  swept 

And  when  the  bugle  said, 
"  Up,  charge,  again!"  no  man  was  there 

But  hung  his  dogged  head. 
"  We've  no  one  left  to  lead  us  now," 

The  sullen  soldiers  said. 

Just  then,  before  the  laggard  line. 
The  colonel's  horse  we  spied  — 

Bay  Billy,  with  his  trappings  on. 
His  nostril  swelHng  wide. 

As  though  still  on  his  gallant  back 
The  master  sat  astride. 

Right  royally  he  took  the  place 

That  w^as  of  old  his  wont, 
And  with  a  neigh,  that  seemed  to  say. 

Above  the  battle's  brunt, 
"  How  can  the  Twenty-second  charge 

If  I  am  not  in  front?" 

Like  statues  we  stood  rooted  there. 
And  gazed  a  little  space; 


212  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Above  that  floating  mane  we  missed 

The  dear  familiar  face; 
But  we  saw  Bay  Billy's  eye  of  fire, 

And  it  gave  us  heart  of  grace. 

No  bugle-call  could  rouse  us  all 
As  that  brave  sight  had  done ; 

Down  all  the  battered  line  we  felt 
A  lightning  impulse  run; 

Up,  up  the  hill  we  followed  Bill, 
And  captured  every  gun! 

And  when  upon  the  conquered  height 

Died  out  the  battle's  hum, 
Vainly  'mid  living  and  the  dead 

We  sought  our  leader  dumb ; 
It  seemed  as  if  a  specter  steed 

To  win  that  day  had  come. 

At  last  the  morning  broke.  The  lark 

Sang  in  the  merry  skies, 
As  if  to  e'en  the  sleepers  there 

It  bade  awake!  arise!  — 
Though  naught  but  that  last  trump  of  all 

Could  ope  their  heavy  eyes. 

And  then  once  more,  with  banners  gay, 
Stretched  out  the  long  brigade ; 

Trimly  upon  the  furrowed  field 
The  troops  stood  on  parade, 

And  bravely  'mid  the  ranks  were  closed 
The  gaps  the  fight  had  made. 

Not  half  the  Twenty-second's  men 
Were  in  their  place  that  morn, 


BAY  BILLY  213 


And  Corp'ral  Dick,  who  yester-morn 

Stood  six  brave  fellows  on, 
Now  touched  my  elbow  in  the  ranks, 

For  all  between  were  gone. 

Ah !  v/ho  forgets  that  dreary  hour 

When,  as  with  misty  eyes, 
To  call  the  old  familiar  roll 

The  solemn  sergeant  tries  — 
One  feels  that  thumping  of  the  heart 

As  no  prompt  voice  replies. 

And  as  in  falt'ring  tone  and  slow 
The  last  few  names  were  said. 

Across  the  field  some  missing  horse 
Toiled  up  with  weary  tread. 

It  caught  the  sergeant's  eye,  and  quick 
Bay  Billy's  name  was  read. 

Yes  I  there  the  old  bay  hero  stood, 

All  safe  from  battle's  harms. 
And  ere  an  order  could  be  heard, 

Or  the  bugle's  quick  alarms, 
Down  all  the  front,  from  end  to  end, 

The  troops  presented  arms! 

Not  all  the  shoulder-straps  on  earth 

Could  still  our  mighty  cheer. 
And  ever  from  that  famous  day, 

"When  rang  the  roll-call  clear. 
Bay  Billy's  name  was  read,  and  then 

The  whole  line  answered  "  Here!" 

F,  H.  Gassawcy 


214  SONGS  OF  HORSES 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more. 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war, 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need ; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thund  ering  south, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster. 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE  215 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snufiing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 
What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance  told  him  both. 
Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzahs. 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there 

because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray ; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say: 
"  I  have  brought  you,  Sheridan,  all  the  way 
From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day.'* 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky. 


2i6  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester  —  twenty  miles  away!" 
Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


MILES  KEOGH'S  HORSE 

On  the  bluff  of  the  Little  Big-Horn, 

At  the  close  of  a  woful  day, 
Custer  and  his  Three  Hundred 

In  death  and  silence  lay. 

Three  hundred  to  three  thousand ! 

They  had  bravely  fought  and  bled ; 
For  such  is  the  will  of  Congress 

When  the  White  man  meets  the  Red. 

The  White  men  are  ten  millions, 
The  thriftiest  under  the  sun; 

The  Reds  are  fifty  thousand. 
And  warriors  every  one. 

So  Custer  and  all  his  fighting  men 
Lay  under  the  evening  skies, 

Staring  up  at  the  tranquil  heaven 
With  wide,  accusing  eyes. 

And  of  all  that  stood  at  noonday 

In  that  fiery  scorpion  ring, 
Miles  Keogh's  horse  at  evening 

Was  the  only  living  thing. 


MILES  KEOGH'S  HORSE  217 

Alone  from  that  field  of  slaughter, 
Where  lay  the  three  hundred  slain, 

The  horse  Comanche  wandered, 
With  Keogh's  blood  on  his  mane. 

And  Sturgis  issued  this  order, 

Which  future  times  shall  read. 
While  the  love  and  honor  of  comrades 

Are  the  soul  of  the  comrade's  creed. 

He  said: 

Let  the  horse  Comanche^ 

Henceforth  till  he  shall  die^ 
Be  kindly  cherished  and  cared  for 

By  the  Seventh  Cavalry. 

He  shall  do  no  labor;  he  never  shall  know 

The  touch  of  spur  or  rein; 
Nor  shall  his  hack  he  ever  crossed 

By  living  rider  again. 
And  at  regimental  formation 

Of  the  Seventh  Cavalry y 
Comanche,  draped  in  mourning,  and  led 

By  a  trooper  of  Company  /, 
Shall  parade  with  the  regiment! 

Thus  it  wa 
Commanded,  and  thus  done, 
By  order  of  General  Sturgis,  signed 
By  Adjutant  Garlington. 

Even  as  the  sword  of  Custer, 

In  his  disastrous  fall. 
Flashed  out  a  blaze  that  charmed  the  world* 

And  glorified  his  pall. 


2i8  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

This  order,  issued  amid  the  gloom 

That  shrouds  our  army's  name, 
When  all  foul  beasts  are  free  to  rend 

And  tear  its  honest  fame, 

Shall  prove  to  a  callous  people 
That  the  sense  of  a  soldier's  worth. 

That  the  love  of  comrades,  the  honor  of  arms, 
Have  not  perished  from  earth. 

John  Hay 

ON  THE  FIELDS  OF  FRANCE 

God  speed  the  horse  on  the  fields  of  France, 

As  he  fights  in  Freedom's  name; 
God  save  the  horse  from  the  sword  and  lance 
When  he  bravely  halts  the  foe's  advance. 
As  cannon  roar  and  the  shrapnel  dance 
Let  his  stout  heart  know  no  shame. 

God  guard  the  horse  on  that  fateful  day, 

When  he  hears  the  battle's  song 
As  trumpet  sounds  in  the  morning  gray. 
And  charging  hosts  through  the  bloody  fray, 
Shall  see  the  light  of  a  victor's  day. 
When  the  right  shall  conquer  wrong. 

God  help  the  horse  when  the  earth  and  sky. 

Is  choked  with  poison'd  breath. 
Though  his  martial  soul  knows  how  to  die. 
His  great  heart  breaks  as  they  pass  him  by. 
No  grief,  no  tear,  no  pitying  eye. 

Though  he  wins  the  cross  of  death. 


REMOUNTS  219 


The  sigh  of  his  soul  as  swift  as  light, 

That  speeds  through  the  ether  blue, 
Unceasing  calls  in  its  onward  flight: 
**  We  fought  as  only  the  dumb  beasts  fight, 
We  fought  not  knowing  the  wrong  from  right, 
Yet  we  fought  and  died  for  you." 

Thomas  H.  Herndon 


REMOUNTS 

In  the  rosy  red  of  the  dawning  your  hoofs  on  the 
roadway  ring 

You  that  shall  carry  our  heroes,  you  that  shall  fight 
for  the  King. 

You  that  shall  lead  the  triumph  in  a  last  long  tramp- 
ling line 

When  the  swords  have  saved  us  Europe  and  slashed 
their  way  to  the  Rhine  1 

Called  from  an  Irish  farmland,  called  from  an  Eng- 
lish fen. 

Called  from  a  prairie  pasture  to  measure  the  lives  of 
men. 

What  courage  that  laughs  at  danger,  what  spirit 
that  scoffs  at  Death, 

But,  born  to  our  Empire,  freedom  ye  have  drunk 
with  your  every  breath ! 

Bred  in  her  conquering  kingdoms,  you,  too,  are  the 
Empire's  sons. 

You  that  shall  tug  at  the  wagons,  you  that  shall  gal- 
lop the  gims. 


220  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

You  that  are  part  of  our  glory,  whose  help  has  the 

years  bestowed 
Whenever  our  grandsires  gathered,  wherever  our 

fathers  rode ! 

And,  faith,  ye  shall  never  fail  us  when  the  whimper- 
ing bullets  fiy. 

When  the  lances  shiver  and  splinter  and  Death  in 
his  spurs  goes  by : 

When  the  stricken  reels  in  his  saddle  and  the  chill 
hand  drops  the  rein, 

And  bloody  out  of  the  battle  ye  wheel  to  the  tents 
again! 

Hail  to  the  hero  that  waits  you,  gunner,  hussar  or 

dragoon! 
Hail  to  day  of  your  glory  —  and  the  War-God  send 

it  soon! 
Luck  to  your  prancing  squadron,  whose  hoofs  on 

the  roadway  ring 
Proud  ye  shall  carry  the  victors  who  carry  the 

swords  of  the  King ! 

Will  H.  Ogilvie 


CAVALRY  CHARGE 

After  the  tanks  and  gun  machines 
And  the  heavy  artillery's  through; 
After  the  barrage  and  after  the  gas 
And  after  the  hullabaloo; 
After  the  minor  and  lesser  arms 
Of  the  service  have  had  their  fling  — 


CAVALRY  CHARGE  221 

It's  boot  and  saddle  and  sword  and  spur, 
And  the  cavalry  charge's  the  thing! 
Cavalry  —  all  in  a  sudden  rush, 

A  clang  and  a  mighty  shout ; 
The  foemen  struck  with  a  frightened  hush, 
And  then  with  a  panic  rout ! 

Give  each  his  number  in  war  and  life 

And  each  his  labor  to  do; 

The  infantryman  in  his  special  place 

And  the  big  gun  batteries,  too; 

But  when  there 's  an  army  to  sweep  and  flay 

And  a  field  of  carnage  to  clear. 

The  cavalry  charge  is  the  only  way  — 

God!  It's  the  bugles,  hear! 

To  horse  and  away !  And  all  is  well  — 
And  that  is  enough  of  the  Hun ; 

The  riders  of  death  from  the  mouth  of  hell 
Are  goin*  to  teach  him  to  run ! 

The  color-sergeant  can  tell  a  lot 

And  the  corporal  knows  his  men; 

And  most  of  the  things  the  Captain's  forgot 

The  Lieutenant  is  larnin'  again. 

There's  troops  and  troops,  divisions  and  corps, 

But  the  cleanup  gang  of  the  fight 

Is  the  cavalry  —  Ho !  for  the  trumpeter 

"  Forward!  Platoons  by  right!  " 

Then  thunder  away  with  your  heavy  guns. 
And  lead  the  infantry  in ; 

For  after  yer  through  with  the  dirty  Huns 
The  cavalry's  work  '11  bep:in! 


222  SONGS  OF  HORSES 

Clean  'em  up  is  the  Major's  word, 

And  clean  'em  up  it  shall  be. 

Ah,  he  sits  well  on  his  leaping  horse 

Who  is  fit  for  the  rider's  glee. 

And  the  ranks  shall  waver  before  our  stride 

And  the  faces  all  blanched  and  white 

Shall  turn  to  look  at  the  other  side 

When  we  get  into  the  fight. 

The  cavalry!  Charge,  and  spring  away, 
Rout  'em  and  clean  up  here. 

And  even  the  nags  neath  the  saddles  know  - 
The  hoss  has  a  wondrous  ear. 

Heavy  battalion  and  maybe  the  light, 
Grenadier,  hussar  and  all  — 
Follow  the  cannonade  into  the  fight, 
It's  a  duty  to  answer  the  call; 
But  layin'  low  for  the  moment  sweet 
And  tuggin'  with  bridles  to  go. 
The  cavalry  jumps  to  its  bloomin'  feet 
The  moment  the  bugles  blow: 
Boot,  spur,  to  horse  and  off, 

And  there 's  never  a  battle  that 's  done 
Till  the  cavalry 's  swept  the  battle  floor 
Of  the  last  derned,  brutal  Hun. 

Polger  McKinsey 


FINIS 


INDEXES 


irTDEX  OF  TITLES 


Alexander  taming  Bucephalus 73 

Arab's  Farewell  to  his  Steed,  The 83 

Ballad  of  East  and  West,  The 47 

Ballad  of  Hadji  and  the  Boar,  The 100 

Bavieca 86 

^Bay  Billy" 210 

Bolts 170 

Burro 14 

Call  to  the  Cow  Ponies,  A 205 

Cavalry  Charge       220 

Chiquita 8 

Cochero  and  the  Horse,  The 167 

Conroy's  Gap 68 

Conscripts 204 

Consul  Romanus 65 

Death  of  the  Old  Squire,  The 152 

Dumb  Appeal,  A 201 

Early  Morning  Ride,  The 67 

El-Azrek 78 

El  Hijo  del  Mar 42 

Elkridge  Hunt  Club,  The 148 

Famous  Ballad  of  the  Jubilee  Cup,  The      .     .     .     .131 

Foxhunter's  Dream,  The 146 

From  the  Wreck 90 

Glory  of  the  Horse,  The 88 


226  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Hijo  del  Mar,  El 42 

Horse,  The 198 

Horse  of  Pete  Lareau,  The 189 

Horse's  Epitaph,  A 89 

How  Salvator  Won 124 

How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet 176 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to 

Aix 96 

How  we  beat  the  Favourite 119 

In  Memory  of  Nancy  Hanks 140 

Kentucky  Thoroughbred,  The 67 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The 76 

Largo 3 

Lasca 16 

Lay  of  the  Hospital  Race,  The 182 

Leap  of  Roushan  Beg,  The 108 

Legend  of  Boastful  Bill,  The 163 

Lorraine 99 

Marta  of  Milrone 31 

Master  of  the  Horse,  The 149 

Meeting,  The 37 

Miles  Keogh's  Horse 216 

Muleykeh 57 

No  Rest  for  the  Horse 8i 

"  Nota  Bene  " 152 

"  Number  7  "...    * 206 

OP  Cow  Hawse,  The 24 

Old  Gray  Mare,  The 151 

Old-Timer,  The      .     .     o 7 

On  Active  Service 200 

On  the  Fields  of  France 218 

Our  Horses I44 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  227 

Pardners 36 

Passing  of  the  Horse,  The 172 

Paul  Revere's  Ride iii 

Pedigrees 127 

Picture,  A 89 

Pony -Express,  The 19 

Prayer,  A 202 

Race  of  the  Year,  The 128 

Range  Rider,  The 13 

Remounts 219 

Riders  of  the  Stars 10 

Ridin» 5 

Riding  Camel,  The 53 

Riding  Song 43 

Ringers,  The 142 

Roan  Cayuse,  The 25 

Saddle-Song,  A 30 

Sheridan's  Ride 214 

Sir  Giles'  War-Song 208 

Song  of  the  Cavalier 209 

Song  of  the  Leather,  The 22 

Sunday  Talk  in  the  Horse  Sheds 173 

Sunlight 195 

Ten  Broeck 130 

Trail  of  Death,  The 20 

Troop  Horses 197 

Trotting  Wonders  of  1889,  The 139 

Two-Bits 38 

Undertaker's  Horse,  The 165 

War-Horse  Buyers,  The 203 

When  you  're  Throwed 28 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Benjamin,  Park 73 

Braley,  Berton         36 

Brinninstool,  E.  A 24 

Browning,  Robert        57»  96 

Burdette,  Robert  J 173 

Chapman,  Arthur 7»  i9>  37>  203 

Clark,  Badger 5,  22,  163 

D.  S.  G 148 

Desprez,  Frank       16 

Ellis,  James  Tandy 130 

F.  M.  W 144 

Fielding,  Anna  M 204 

Fothergill,  George  A 149 

G.,  D.  S 148 

Gassaway,  F.  H 210 

Gilroy,  Dorothea 67 

Gordon,  Adam  Lindsay 9o»  "9 

Hall,  Sharlot  M I3i  20,  30,  38 

Hamilton,  Ian 100 

Harte,  Bret 8 

Hay,  John 216 

Hemdon,  Thomas  H 218 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 176 

Job,  The  Book  of 88 


230  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Keough,  Hugh  Edmund 182 

Kingsley,  Charles 99 

Kipling,  Rudyard 47,  165 

Kiser,  S.  E 172 

Knibbs,  Henry  Herbert 3i  10,  25,  195 

Lampton,  Will  J 140 

Lehmann,  R.  C 151 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson 86 

Longfellow,  Henry  W 108,  iii 

Lyons,  Norbert 167 

McKinsey,  Folger 220 

Morris,  William 208 

Motherwell,  William 209 

Musgrave,  Edith 206 

Norton,  Caroline 76,  83 

O.  R 14 

Ogilvie,  Will  H 53,  I97,  205,  219 

Paterson,  A.  B 68 

Pierce,  Em 127,  139,  142 

Pope,  Jessie       201 

Purves,  C.  S 202 

Quiller-Couch,  Arthur  T 131 

R.,  0 14 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan 214 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb        67 

Scheffauer,  Herman  G 31 

Scheu,  G.  C 146 

Shadwell,  Bertrand 65 

Shakespeare       89 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  231 

Sherbrooke,  Lord 89 

Shinn,  Charles  Howard 42 

Swift,  Ivan 189 

Taylor,  Bayard 78 

W.,  F.  M 144 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler       124,  198 

Williams,  W.  Phillpotts 128 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


^•ijfe^isier  Fam«y  LfofBffy  or  \fetertnfiiy  »^^ 

Cumminp':  School  of  Veterinary  MedtelB©# 

iiks  Unh/erstty 

nyo  <A/estboro  Road 


